A Thief's Game
by FantasyBard
Summary: A shadowy enemy taunts Sherlock with a series of fiendish puzzles, he begins to understand that trying to win this game on his own might be more difficult than he had originally anticipated. He finds himself relying on his girlfriend, Brenna Ryan. But, neither Brenna nor Sherlock are aware of just how high the stakes are, and that Moriarty wants them both to play his game.
1. Domestic Disharmony

**Hello, to both the new and old readers of my Sherlock series, A Thief's Life. This was a series that I started a few years ago, when I first discovered Sherlock. I really enjoyed the idea of Sherlock falling for someone who had experience operating on the opposite side of the law. That idea and a little inspiration from the American crime drama White Collar, and the character of Brenna Ryan was born.**

 **I decided to begin a major overhaul of the series because I didn't really feel like it was the gelling the way that I had hoped it would. Moreover, the release of Season 3 gave me a lot of ideas that I wanted to incorporate, but which wouldn't really have fit in with the continuity I had already established. For these reasons, I decided to go back and rewrite the series from The Great Game in order to hopefully improve the stories.**

 **This rewrite has been a long time in coming, but I am hoping that it will make this series more enjoyable and more in keeping with the spirit of the show. That being said, the first few chapters haven't been changed a great deal, but that will change as the story progresses. I look forward to hearing what people think.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, either the show which was created by writers and actors vastly more talented than I am, or the original characters themselves which were first imagined by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This is merely an exercise in enjoyment for myself, and for anbody who chooses to read.**

 **A Thief's Game is rated T for for some scenes of suggestive or violent nature.**

 **A Thief's Game, or The Great Game**

 **The great game is about to begin. For some time, Sherlock Holmes has been expecting the mysterious figure of Moriarty to make some sort of move. As the criminal mastermind sets the consulting detective on a string of fiendishly difficult puzzles, he finds himself matching wits with a person who is as clever as himself, and infinitely more dangerous.**

 **This seems all over the head of Sherlock professed girlfriend/partner, Brenna Ryan. Absorbed in a case of her own that involves a brilliantly forged Vermeer masterpiece, she believes that this fight has nothing to do with her. However, Sherlock finds that some things about this game force him to face his inner demons, and only Brenna can help him. In the end, Sherlock is beginning to find that he cannot win this game by himself.**

 **But little does Brenna realize that she is a part of the game, and had been for along time. As she finds herself remembering the events of her father's funeral, her family's rejection and her arrest, she begins to find that there are more secrets than she could have suspected. But Moriarty knows them, and if Sherlock is going to play, so will Brenna, the stakes being equally high for them both.**

 **Life is a game, and sometimes, there can only be one winner.**

 **And now, without further ado, please enjoy the story.**

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Domestic Disharmony:

Brenna had known what she was getting into when she had started a relationship with Sherlock. She had known that he could be distant, rude, unthinking and completely clueless as to when he was giving offense. She had known that he was a very difficult man to get along with under the best of circumstances, and downright impossible during the bad times, which was pretty much all of the time. She had known all of this, and yet, she still had gone into the relationship. Therefore, she really had no one to blame but herself when things went sour.

That was what she told herself logically, and most of the time it worked. However, there were times when her relationship with Sherlock defied all logic. And when that happened, well, it was safe to say that only friction could result.

Brenna had gone beyond angry that night when she arrived at 221B Baker St. Sherlock wasn't there, he was currently somewhere off in Minsk, for reasons she couldn't begin to fathom. However, she knew that he was coming home that evening, and she wanted to be there when he arrived.

Of course, Sherlock had not been at all aware of any sort of infringement on his part about the proper rules when it came to dating. He was almost completely ignorant of them. And chances are that he might not have cared about them at all. Brenna was normally quite willing and happy to teach him. However, this time, he had overlooked something that should have been so blatantly obvious that she had felt her patience snap.

Sherlock, therefore, had no idea of the imminent disaster that was impending for him when he walked into the living room and saw Brenna sitting there on the couch. "Brenna, hello. I wasn't expecting to find you here."

"Oh, weren't you, I would have expected it to be quite obvious."

"How did you know I would be home at this hour?"

"John told me that you would be getting home right around now. I wanted to be sure that I would be the first person to see you."

Sherlock stared hard at Brenna. Her eyes were narrowed and hard, posture stiff and unbending, and her fingers were drumming mechanically on the seat of the couch and her knee. Her breathing was also coming harder and faster than it normally did. Those weren't encouraging signs. Brenna was angry and when Brenna was angry, heads were liable to roll. "You're angry?"

"No, really? Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. Again, you impress me by your statement of the obvious."

"You're angry with me." It was a statement, not a question.

"Like hell I am, Sherlock. And don't you stand there and tell me that you have no idea what you did, Sherlock."

A long moment of positively awkward silence followed this statement. Brenna threw her hands up in the obvious frustration. "No, of course, you don't know. Why am I not surprised?"

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"I'll do more than that, Sherlock. I'll lay it out for you plain and simple; you stood me up last evening."

"I did?" said Sherlock, still totally uncomprehending.

"Yes, remember, we had dinner reservations at that restaurant I've been wanting to try. You somehow managed to get reservations, though I don't know how. I hurry there after an incredibly stressful day at work, hoping that I wasn't late, and I end up waiting for two hours. I called you, I texted you and you didn't answer. I finally gave up and went home, only to see on your bog that you're in Belarus of all places."

"So, you consoled yourself with a pint of brownie batter chocolate ice cream and your well-worn, well-loved copy of the 1995 version of Pride and Prejudice."

"I'm not even going to ask you how you managed to figure that out."

"You always turn to Jane Austen when your depressed. She's your favorite novelist, as evidenced by all the additions of the novels you own and all the DVD's of her books. You own every version ever made. And the ice cream was a dead give away."

"I am seriously tempted to throw something at you right now." growled Brenna, "Do you remember what happened the last time you called me fat?"

"I never said you were fat."

"Well, it was implied, which is just as worse."

"And I thought that you didn't care about such things."

Brenna momentarily wondered if she could get away with strangling Sherlock. Surely, if she could get a jury that comprised entirely of women, none of them would condemn her in the slightest. Taking several deep breaths, and trying to control herself, she said, "Why were you in Belarus?" She emphasized each word through gritted teeth.

"There was a possible case there, but it came to nothing. Domestic murder. The man gave himself away on the first interview. There was absolutely nothing to interest me."

"So, you stood me up, without a word, for a dud case?" said Brenna, in disbelief. "I might have been willing to give you a hearing if you had actually been involved with something important. This is just a greater insult."

Sherlock was beginning to feel himself becoming annoyed with Brenna's attitude. "Brenna, you know how important my work is to me. You now that I haven't had any cases for awhile. I thought that this one had potential on the surface. Not even I can always tell when something will be a complete flop."

"That's not the point, Sherlock."

"It that's not it, I would like to know what is." Said Sherlock, "And why are you getting so defensive? You've broken off dates before because of your work, and I haven't complained. Furthermore, the last two times we've planned on doing something, I haven't been able to make it, and you accepted it with good grace. Why on earth should this be any different?"

"Sherlock, those last two times, and all the other times either of us had to cancel, we at least had the decency to call and say we couldn't be there, this is totally different. You stood me up."

"The end result is still the same."

"Sherlock, how can you be so utterly dense? It's not the same at all. Do you have any idea how humiliated I felt when you didn't show up?"

"If your sense of self worth is so fragile that it requires me showing up for a date, than that is your problem."

Sherlock only realized how hurtful the words were until it was to late. Brenna's face became positively acidic, and the look of hurt which flashed in her eyes actually pierced Sherlock to the heart. But he couldn't take back the words, and he was to proud to apologize. Brenna, too, was to angry to see things sensibly.

And she didn't want Sherlock to see her cry. "You know, just forget it, Sherlock." She spat, "It was stupid of me to think that you, of all people, would see reason. Goodbye."

She pushed past him and hurried out the door. Sherlock heard the door slam approximately ten seconds later. That meant she hadn't lingered, but had literally flown down the steps to get away from him as fast as possible. The door also slammed shut, another indication that Brenna had left more angry than she had arrived. And when he stole a glance out the window, she was walking and hadn't even looked back.

As the silence sank in around him, Sherlock was left with a lingering sense of total disbelief. He and Brenna had just argued. Granted such a thing in and of itself would not have been strange; he and Brenna had fought several times. But they had always argued over things of consequence. This had been their first major argument dealing with a totally normal matter. He vaguely understood that showing up for dates was expected and that failing to do so without proper notice was a bad move. But he had honestly thought that such things would apply to him and Brenna. Well, he had just been taught differently. Clearly, Brenna did care.

So, did that mean that Brenna and he were turning into a normal couple? The very idea made him shudder. Granted, there had been some things about being a normal couple that he enjoyed, but that didn't mean he wanted their relationship to descend completely into the mundane. First, they were arguing about mixed dates. What would be next? Fighting about whose turn it was to cook dinner or take out the trash?

Sherlock might have been over panicking about such possibilities, but part of that could be blamed on his current state of mind. He had just returned from a case that had had no interest whatever and no possible prospects in the future. The truth was, Sherlock was bored. He could already feel that mind-numbing feeling weighing down on him, the kind that made him want to almost physically rip out of his skull. What made it worse that he had no one to be bored _with_. Sherlock wasn't actually the best of company when he was bored, but the old adage of misery loves company worked quite well in such situations.

Of course, since he had more or less alienated Brenna because of his stupidity, he faced the prospect of a long, dull evening on his own. How perfectly horrid.

It was this state of frenzied boredom that drove Sherlock to spray paint a smiley face on the wall, and shoot at it using John's gun. It was in the midst of this bizarre target practice that his flat mate came home. The arrival did nothing to help Sherlock's state of mind. He and John also got into a fight, about what Sherlock would not be able to remember afterwards, only that it centered around irrelevant things like the solar system and John's blog. However, it ended the same way, with Sherlock once more saying something stupid before he could stop himself, and John, like Brenna, storming out of the flat.

What was wrong with the world? Why did everything have to be so quiet, calm, and peaceful when Sherlock's life seemed to be losing all sense of cohesion? It wasn't fair that his life was so boring.

Then, the explosion took out the entire living room, and Sherlock's life suddenly became much more interesting.

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 **Please, read and review.**

 **Next chapter: Sherlock and Brenna make amends over their domestic disharmony, just in time to receive a visit from Mycroft. Also, some hints of the current case that Brenna is working mean that she will soon be crossing paths with Sherlock in the most unexpected of ways.**


	2. Making Amends

**Merry Christmas Eve, everyone. As an early Christmas gift, here is a new chapter of A Thief's Game. Enjoy!**

Making Amends:

The morning brought only a little relief for Brenna's state of mind. She may not have been as angry as she previously was, but she wasn't yet ready to go over to 221B and try to work things out.

She had more immediate problems, namely the current case that she and the rest of the white collar unit were working on. She was in deep undercover at the Hickman Gallery, one of the most prestigious modern art galleries in London. She was undercover as the PA to the head curator, a woman by the name of Ramona Wenceslas.

It had proven to be a thoroughly taxing assignment. Wenceslas was, to put it mildly, the boss from hell. She seemed to think that her word was gospel set in stone, and she did not like anyone contradicting her. In fact, she sometimes wondered if Wenceslas expected everyone to bow down in respect to her superior artistic judgment. After nearly two weeks of working for her, bowing, scraping and running hither and yon to meet her every petty need, Brenna was beginning to think that she would never complain about working for Alice and Scotland Yard again.

However, she would have been willing to put up with a lot more if it meant bringing this case to a satisfactory conclusion. For her, bringing Wenceslas to justice had become personal. A few weeks before, Alice had gathered the rest of the team in the conference room. They had been expecting the usual round of insurance schemes, cheque fraud and forgery. However, they got something distinctly different.

"You're going to love this case, Brenna." said Alice, as they all sat down. "It's right up your alley." On the conference room screen came up an image of a beautiful Vermeer masterpiece, depicting the West bank of London at night.

"I know that painting It's a legend" said Brenna, "Vermeer was never able to complete it. The only copies that exist are based on preliminary sketches that he did. It's a tragedy of the art world that he was never able to paint it. It would have been one of his masterpieces."

"Well, it's not a theory anymore. Just a few weeks ago, the Hickman Gallery announced that they had discovered the painting, and that they would be exhibiting it in a few weeks, before auctioning it off."

"Wait a minute," said Patrick, "An old masterpiece by Vermeer, that wasn't even painted or completed, just happens to turn up in a gallery here in London, with no warning whatsoever? Seems a bit convenient."

"And the Hickman is a modern art gallery." Trevor remarked, "Why would they be interested in exhibiting a work by a painter who lived in the seventeenth century? Shouldn't they have passed it onto the National Gallery or something?"

"You still seem to think that the art world is a democratic establishment." said Brenna, wryly, "You wouldn't believe how much deception and backbiting goes on amongst the so-called law-abiding curators of museums in order to get their hands on valuable pieces. Sometimes, the back room deals that they pull in order to get just one are almost worse than what we criminals go through to get them."

"And I'm afraid that those back-room deals might have gotten a little bit uglier." Said Alice, "We just received word from INTERPOL a few hours ago. They've been on the trail of a well-known forager in Argentina, who goes by the name of Hector Branson."

At the sound of the name, Brenna's head shot up. "Hector Branson?"

"You know him?" said Alice.

"Of course, everyone who works in smuggling rare forgeries knows the name. He's a legend, an absolute genius. He can fake any painter, any style, without breaking a sweat. He's also the most modest man you can imagine. Never keeps any of the money that he makes from the selling of his paintings, always gives it to the local orphanage in his community. It would almost be a tragedy to have him brought in."

Alice looked at Brenna gravely. "I'm afraid that he's dead, Brenna."

Brenna's eyes grew wide with shock. "What?"

"Officers who were investigating his home found his body there yesterday evening. They managed to confirm that he was Hector Branson, and that he just signed a major deal with someone for his paintings. They found a lot of e-mails from an unknown buyer. His cell-phone records also indicate that he had been receiving and making a lot of phones calls, again to a number that couldn't be traced, but one that had its origin here in London."

"So, you're thinking that whoever he was making this deal with didn't want to share the money, so they had him killed?" said Trevor.

"It's a plausible explanation." said Alice, "The last Vermeer to be discovered and auctioned off went for over fifteen million pounds. If this painting turns out to be by Vermeer, it could run well over fifty million. That's a lot of money for one person to have."

"And whoever made that deal probably works in the Hickman." said Trevor.

"Yes, our primary suspect is this woman." A new image appeared on the screen, this time of a woman in her late forties, with a severe profile, long sharp nose, black hair and a wide, thin mouth. "Ramona Wenceslas, curator of the Hickman gallery."

"She looks mean enough to kill someone." said Patrick.

"Who knows, she might have." said Alice, "We don't have anything substantial against Miss Wenceslas, but there have been questionable transactions going at that gallery for some time. Five years ago, they were under investigation for the possession of a group of statues that had been obtained from an illegal dig site in India. A year ago, they were investigated for the same offense, that time for a Picasso that was later proved to be a fake."

"Given all of that, why is the Hickman even still open?" said Trevor.

"They must have some had some pretty good connections in the Black Market." said Brenna, "Not to mention people with deep pockets who are willing to look the other way for a cut of the profits."

"But this is the first time that a direct trail could lead from them to a murder." said Alice, "We can prove the painting is a fake, we have them."

"That sounds rather difficult." said Trevor, "According to this report, the gallery isn't letting anyone see the painting until it goes on display. The only people who have looked it over are the scholars who are in their employ, and would probably say whatever they are told, if the price is right."

"Exactly, Trevor." said Alice, "We need someone from the outside, someone who is an expert in Vermeer, and having made a few herself, could spot a fake of the old master a mile away."

"Let me guess, me." said Brenna.

"No, I was thinking of someone entirely different." Said Alice, with a roll of her eyes. "Of course, I mean you. I just didn't want to come right out and say it. I know how much you love to advertise your own gifts."

"Thanks. But, how am I going to get in to see this painting?"

"It turns out that Miss Wenceslas just fired her personal assistant. You'll be taking over."

"Oh great, I can't wait. You'll have to cut my anklet for this one."

"Don't worry; we'll have it back on you as soon as you come out of the gallery every day. As for the rest of you, I want to start researching any connections that the Hickman might have to dealers who would market in this kind of forgery. Make sure to look on the shady side of the law."

As the rest of the white collar unit proceeded out of the room, Alice noticed that Brenna was lingering, and there was a troubled look on her face. "Are you all right?" She asked.

Brenna shook her head. "I met Hector once. He would never hurt anyone. He took pride in his work. He might have been a criminal, but he wasn't a bad guy. He deserved a better ending than this."

Alice put a hand on Brenna's shoulder. "We'll find out who's behind this, Brenna."

"I certainly hope so." said Brenna, "Because right now, this case is personal for me."

So had begun the case of the Vermeer fake, and it had proven to be a rather difficult endeavor. Not only was Miss Wenceslas the boss from hell, she was also paranoid to a fault. It seemed that she didn't allow anyone in to even view the Vermeer, not even Brenna herself, though the whole reason that Wenceslas had apparently hired her was because she was an expert in Vermeer. That made it was rather difficult for Brenna to come up with any evidence against her. It was maddening, knowing that the clues were in the building that she went into every day, but being so far from her goal.

It was the morning after her fight with Sherlock. She was listening with half an ear to report on the news about the Vermeer. The reports so far about the Vermeer had been all hype. However, when she heard the story that came immediately after, she almost dropped her coffee. There had been an explosion in a house only a few blocks from where she lived, in the row of flats that was right across the street from 221B. There was a great deal of damage and it seemed that the extent of the explosion had been far-reaching. And if Sherlock had been there…

Brenna immediately forgot all her anger and annoyance against Sherlock, and was suddenly terrified that something terrible had happened to him. Getting her things together a lot quicker than she normally did, she was at 221B in the next fifteen minutes. The police and fire squad were there, and even though they were technically not supposed to let anyone in, Brenna made a rather convincing show of saying that she lived there.

"Sherlock, Sherlock," she called out, as she rushed up the steps, only to be greeted by the tones of Sherlock's violin. Receiving some comfort from this, she nonetheless hurried up the steps until she came to the door of the living room. Sure enough, there was Sherlock standing by the windows, playing his violin. It was a scene that she had witnessed any number of times, except that the windows had been blown out from the force of the blast, and the openings boarded up. There were pieces of assorted debris all over the floor that Sherlock hadn't bothered to pick up.

He actually seemed surprised to see her. "Brenna, what are you doing here?"

"What do you mean, Sherlock? There was an explosion."

"So, there was." said Sherlock, looking around at the debris surrounding him. It seemed that he thought such an event to be no cause of excitement. "But why would that bother you? After last night, I was certain that you would be avoiding me."

Brenna didn't know whether to be exasperated or relieved. She shook her head, "Sherlock, you are just… How can you…" Finally having enough of trying to make sense out of Sherlock's idea of logic, she just decided to go with the emotional response. She crossed the room and hugged Sherlock tightly. "I'm just glad that you're all right."

For a moment, Sherlock was frozen with surprise. This kind of spontaneous display of affection was still somewhat new to him, and he always needed a moment to decide how he would react. After their fight last night, he had been fairly certain that he wouldn't be seeing Brenna for at least another week. That's the way that it normally went. However, this was a better outcome than what he had been expecting, and he was happy that things were sorted out this quickly. Quite frankly, after the mind-numbing boredom of last night, having Brenna here in his arms was a welcome change.

Tentatively (as he still didn't know whether or not she might suddenly change her mind), he put his arms around her, and returned the embrace. He assumed he had done the right thing, as he heard Brenna sigh happily and settle deeper into his chest. Strange things, hugs. In essence, they were really nothing more than the action of grabbing someone and throttling them. In nearly any other situation, it would be considered a crude form of assault. But, Sherlock had to admit that he found the affects to be quite calming. He could feel his heartbeat growing calmer, and a general sense of well-being seemed settled over him. And all this from a simple embrace. Very curious. This was why repeated experimentation in physical intimacy were so important. One never knew what one would find out.

"Sherlock, I can hear you thinking." Brenna's face was still buried in his chest and he wasn't looking at her, but he could hear the smile in her voice.

"What?"

Brenna lifted her head to smile into his face. "You're analyzing. I can hear the wheels in your head turning. I can practically hear them clicking into place every single observation that you make while I'm hugging you."

"No, you can't." said Sherlock.

"Yes, I can. Don't worry. I don't take it personally. I actually find it rather sexy."

Sherlock looked at her with a thoroughly perplexed expression. "You think it's sexy?" He had heard his deductions described as many thing by many people; sexy had never even been close to one of them.

"Yes. You're always in the moment, unlike 99% of the men that I've been involved with. I really do appreciate it."

Sherlock honestly did not know what he could say to that. "Sherlock, you're thinking again. All you have to say is thank you."

"Oh, thank you."

She regarded him with a smirk. "You really are starting to get a hang for this, Sherlock. There might be hope for you yet." She pulled down Sherlock lips to her own. Sherlock obviously wasn't expecting this move, but once he realized what she was doing, he more than gladly submitted. She was relieved that he was all right, and that she could make up somewhat for the fight they had had last night. Funny, she couldn't remember what had made her so upset, but it hardly seemed important now. She knew that Sherlock could have been killed in that blast, and the very idea of that happening was one that she didn't want to contemplate.

That thought prompted Brenna to pull Sherlock closer to her, and run her tongue along his lips. Sherlock gasped in shock at the feeling and his mouth opened on instinct. Brenna took full advantage of that and slipped her tongue into his mouth, tasting Sherlock a bit more intimately than she normally allowed herself in these sorts of situations. Sherlock felt his heart rate suddenly increase and the endorphins pumping through his blood stream. He loved moments like this, and he had grown to savor them. For so long he had avoided the more physical displays of affection that came so normally to other people. He had never thought that they would ever be essential to him, but ever since starting his relationship with Brenna, he had really come to find that such moments were really special, and really did mean something when they were shared with the right person.

"Am I interrupting something?" The familiar, condescending voice of Mycroft Holmes case a rather cold pall over what Sherlock was certain would have been a rather delightful hour of snogging. As it was, Sherlock reluctantly pulled away from Brenna and turned around to face his brother, who was standing in the doorway with his trademark umbrella and disapproving expression.

"Mycroft," Sherlock greeted neutrally, but still holding his arm tightly around his waist, "So nice of you to come around this morning. What brings you here at this hour of the morning?"

"I was in the neighborhood. I thought that I would drop by."

"It wouldn't have anything to do with concern, I'm sure." said Brenna, "After all, Sherlock was the victim of a gas leak just last night. You wouldn't be coming to check up his safety, would you?"

Mycroft viewed Brenna with almost acute distaste. "That's not necessarily the main reason." He said, in a tone that only confirmed her words. "I actually came here to talk to Sherlock about something rather specific. As you have no doubt come to check up on Sherlock, and having ascertained that he is quite all right, in your own unique way, you can move along now."

Brenna smiled sweetly at Mycroft and sat down rather defiantly in way one of the chairs. "Actually, I don't have anywhere to be for awhile. I'm sure that whatever you have to say you can say in front of me. I am the soul of discretion, after all."

"I'm sure you are." said Mycroft sourly.

"Mycroft, either you talk with Brenna here, or you leave." Said Sherlock, as he sat down in his usual chair, presenting a united front against Mycroft, and Mycroft, with all the power of the British government that he had, knew that it was a front he couldn't hope to fight against.

About twenty minutes later, when John arrived at the flat, he was met by the sight of Sherlock and Mycroft having a pointed stare-off, neither of them budging an inch from their respective positions, and the tension absolutely palpable. It might have been a very glacial scene were it not for Brenna. She was seated by Sherlock's chair, indicating very clearly whose side she was on. However, she was trying very hard not to smile. It was quite obvious that she was enjoying this entire scene.

"I saw the explosion on the news." said John, who was able to tell at a glance that Sherlock had been relatively unaffected by the explosion.

"Oh, this?" said Sherlock, in an offhand manner, glancing around at the wreckage, as though he had just now noticed it. "Oh yes, gas leak, apparently." He then turned his attention back to Mycroft and said, "I can't."

"You can't?" repeated Mycroft, skeptically.

"The stuff I've got is too big, I can't spare the time." said Sherlock, airily.

Brenna regarded Sherlock with a raised eyebrow, smiling slightly. Sherlock was definitely trying to lie, 'trying' being the operative word and he was failing miserably.

The answer was hardly a surprise, as it was the answer that Sherlock always gave when Mycroft came to him for help (initially, at least), but Mycroft was not the slightest mood to play Sherlock's regular games. "Never mind your trivia; this is a matter of national importance."

Sherlock, not wanting to let any opportunity pass of egging his brother on, said, "How's the diet?"

"Fine." said Mycroft, through half gritted teeth. Sherlock seemed to have hit something of a raw nerve.

Brenna suddenly began coughing, a vain attempt to hide her strangled laughter. Mycroft glared at her, before he looked over at John, taking a moment to rearrange his face into a perfectly amicable expression. "Maybe you can get through to him, John."

"Sorry?" said John, in confusion.

"I'm afraid that my brother can be quite intransigent."

"If it's so important, why don't you investigate it?" Sherlock said, pointedly.

"No, no," said Mycroft, dismissively, "I can't possibly be away from the office, right, not with the Korean elections…" He stopped and then smiled knowingly. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this, it requires… leg work." The last two words were said with such disgust and loathing that the very idea seemed to be the most repellent thing in the world to him.

"You know, that diet of yours might yield some more obvious results if you did add some physical activity to your routine. Isn't that true, John? You're the medical expert in the room."

John looked from Brenna to Mycroft. "I really would prefer not to say."

"How's Sarah, John?" Sherlock asked, though not because he particularly cared about Sarah's well-being, more that he just wanted to drag in any inane topic to further irritate Mycroft. "How was the Lilo?"

"Sofa, Sherlock, it was the sofa." Said Mycroft, without so much as looking up from his watch.

Sherlock glanced at John. "Oh, yes, of course." He seemed almost disappointed that his ploy had failed by Mycroft out deducing him.

John, on the other hand, was floored by the being the subject of two Holmes' deductions. "How...? Know what, I don't want to know."

"Wise move, John. You don't want to get these two in a competition. It's not a pretty sight, believe me. Sherlock always loses." Now it was Sherlock's turn to give Brenna an annoyed glare. "I'm only stating facts, Sherlock."

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became… pals." Said Mycroft, "What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine?"

"I'm never bored." said John, truthfully, and without confirming or denying Mycroft's statement. Yes, Sherlock could be a royal pain, impossible to reason with, rude and inconsiderate, and then, of course, there was that nasty little habit of finding body parts like a severed head in the kitchen. But, truthfully, John wouldn't have traded any of that. Sherlock gave him a purpose, and John believed that he counted him as a friend.

"Good, that's good isn't it?" said Mycroft, without a great deal of enthusiasm.

Mycroft had had enough of trying to get through to Sherlock, and he decided that John might yield some more immediate results. He got to his feet, and held out a folder to Sherlock. When he snubbed the folder, Mycroft turned to John and said, "Andrew West, Westie to his friends. Civil servant, found dead on the tracks of a Battersea Station this morning."

"Suicide."

"It would appear so."

"But?"

"But?" repeated Mycroft.

"You wouldn't be here if this was were just an accident." said John, that earned him an understated grin of approval Sherlock. He obviously liked it when John proved he could be insightful.

Mycroft even had to give John a little bit of credit for catching on so quickly. "The government is working on a new set of missile defense plans, the Bruce-Pardington Program, it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

"That wasn't very smart." Remarked John.

"Yes, it makes me sleep better at night knowing that competent men like Mycroft are protecting this country." said Brenna.

Mycroft, to his credit, didn't rise to the bait. "It's not the only copy."

"Top secret?" John inquired.

"Very. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands."

"No, of course you can't." said Brenna, with a return of her former sarcasm, "It would perhaps be the end of the world if that happened."

"Sherlock, you need to find and recover those plans." A tense moment of silence followed, as Sherlock and Mycroft stared each other down, neither of them willing to budge from their positions. "Don't make me order you."

Sherlock was nonchalant. "I'd like to see you try."

"Oh, do try Mycroft, it would be so entertaining."

Mycroft was swiftly losing patience with Brenna. "Am I to understand that you find serious matters such as this amusing, Miss Ryan?"

Brenna shrugged. "Well, I do have to say that between you and Sherlock, I do sometimes wonder why I still have a television."

Mycroft did not seem at all amused by this comment, however he still managed to keep at least some of his dignity. "Think it over, Sherlock." He said, as he put the file on Andrew West aside and turned to say goodbye to the one person in the room that had not gotten on his nerves in the past half hour. "Goodbye, John." He said, with a strangely knowing smile. "See you real soon."

Mycroft exited the room, followed by the screeching sounds of Sherlock's violin. "Why did you lie?" John asked, once Mycroft was gone. Sherlock looked at him, questioningly. "You've got nothing on, not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell Mycroft you were busy?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Why shouldn't I?"

"Oh, right, sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

"You may have missed your calling, John." said Brenna, "You should have been a psychiatrist." She got to her feet and said, "Well, as much as I would love to sit here and listen to Sherlock talk endlessly about the deplorable state of crime in the city of London, I have to be getting to work. I'm late as it is." Seeing Sherlock's sour expression, she laughed and kissed him on the cheek. "Stop being so juvenile, Sherlock. You might be surprised. Today could actually be exciting."

No sooner had she said the words and was heading out the door than Sherlock's mobile went off. "Sherlock Holmes." His eyes instantly brightened and a smile appeared on his face. "Of course, how could I refuse?" He leaped to his feet, the lethargy vanishing, replaced by the all too familiar manic energy of Sherlock's mind at work. "It's Lestrade, I've been summoned."

"See, I told you." said Brenna, with a grin.

"John, come on."

John actually seemed surprised. "You want to me to come with you."

"Of course." said Sherlock, as though it should have been completely expected. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

The thing that one had to realize when dealing with Sherlock Holmes was that was not ordinary anything. He did not even apologize with the words "I'm sorry." Instead, he threw off comments that seemed to be only half thought out and dismissive. But, only those who really made a point to get to know Sherlock saw the latent apology in such off-hand statements. It wouldn't have worked with anyone else, but somehow, it seemed to fit Sherlock perfectly.

John was able to hear that Sherlock was trying to amends for their domestic disharmony the night before. And for him, it was quite enough.

* * *

 **Please read, and leave a review to let me know what you think. Have a wonderful Christmas and a Happy New Year. And if I don't get a chance to post before the new Sherlock special airs, here's to The Abominable Bride, and a new adventure with Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson in a whole new setting. I hope that everyone gets a chance to see it, whether it be in the cinema or in your home.**

 **Next chapter: Brenna remembers her past, the worst day of life. It was the day of her father's funeral when her entire family rejected her, and she was left with nothing. And in her darkest moment, she will unknowingly cross paths with a greater threat than she could possibly imagine.**


	3. Rejection

Flashback I: Rejection:

 _ _Two and a half years previously…__

She should never have come back. She should have known that nothing would have changed. She had been a fool to even think that her family would welcome her back with open arms. They had driven her away and she could not blame them. She had been the one who had abandoned them. She wasn't even a part of the family anymore. She should never have come back.

She had heard about her father's death in Paris. The news had devastated her. He had died in a freak car accident. The car had rolled on a dark street in the middle of the night, catching fire. By the time the ambulance had arrived, all that was left of Olivier Ryan's body was ash. It simply didn't seem possible. Her father was dead. He had always seemed so big and strong, so permanent. Brenna had always been her father's favorite. He had always called her his Little Raven, saying that she possessed all the qualities of his favorite bird: intelligence, keen and quick senses, and loyalty. The loyalty she had failed miserably in, she realized. She had come back to try and make amends, to try and apologize. But fate had been cruel to her in yet another sense. It would not even give her the chance to say a proper goodbye.

It had all started when she arrived at the church where the funeral was being held. She had been in no imaginings about the reception she would get. That was why she had arrived so early, hoping that she would be able to avoid her family. But that was not to be. The very first person that she ran into just as she was entering the church was none other than her older sister, Martha Hammond.

Martha had been the middle child of the family. Motherly and kind, from the start she had always been the peacekeeper between the stronger-willed Ryan sisters. She was married, with two children, whom Brenna had not seen since the youngest was little more than a newborn. Now, as she came face to face with the sister that she had not seen in four years, all that Brenna saw was shock, but yet no hostility.

"Brenna?" she said, after a moment, almost questioningly, as if she could not believe that she was actually seeing her in the flesh. "Is it really you?"

"Yes, I suppose that it is." said Brenna, cautiously. She knew that she could not expect grand displays of forgiveness and reconciliation. Such things only occurred in stories. But she could not deny that a part of her had hoped that maybe, just maybe, she could start to mend something. And if that were the case, she was almost relived that Martha was the first one to meet her. Martha would probably not forgive her immediately, but maybe she would at least be willing to give her a fair hearing.

"What are you doing here?" Martha asked, still unable to believe what she was seeing.

"I heard about dad. I was just coming to pay my respects. Don't worry, I don't intend on staying for long. I would hate to give the wrong impression."

She tried to move past Martha to go into the church, but she intercepted her. "Brenna, wait. You have to be careful; mom and Kathleen are already-"

At this very moment, the church doors opened and two more women emerged. The first was Brenna's mother, Nora. She had long, black hair with the only the barest hint of silver. Her eyes were dark brown, and shone with an inner light of strength. Her face was not necessarily beautiful, but it was the force of her personality that most people noticed, the steely resolve which had made her able to withstand the loneliness that went with being a policeman's wife. But, those hardships had given her a pride in her family that very little could shake, save the actions of one within it. The other was Brenna's oldest sister, Kathleen, who was the most like her mother in looks and personality. Unfortunately, her pride in her family was not always tempered with patience. Kathleen was sometimes too quick to judge and to slow to forgive.

These were the forces that Brenna now found herself up against, and as family looked upon family after a gulf of four years and who knows how many crimes on her side, she had the awful sensation that all of her hopes for a reconciliation were about to be utterly shattered.

Silence came upon the church steps for several painful moments, as Kathleen and Nora saw and recognized Brenna, and the fires of judgment began to burn in their eyes. "What the hell are you doing here?" Kathleen finally exploded, as she advanced on Brenna, the rage clearly showing in her eyes.

"Kathleen, please listen to me." Brenna pleaded.

"Listen to you, all right, let's do that." said Kathleen, sarcastically, "Should we listen to how you just left all of us without a word, how you've been gallivanting around Europe, stealing everything that you can get your hands on, how we didn't hear anything from you. Is that what you want us to listen to?"

"Don't bother trying to defend yourself, Brenna." said Nora, when Brenna cast a desperate glance in her direction. Her voice was cool and detached, as if she were looking at the scene from far away, as if Brenna was not worth her concern anymore. "We have all heard it, many times. You dragged your father's name through the dust and his career suffered as a result of it. He ended up having to take the tougher assignments, the most dangerous ones, just so he could pay the bills. Why, there were times when he would not be home for months on end, undercover somewhere. He never told me nothing of his cases, but I could clearly see the toll that they were taking on him. You did that to him, that's what killed him."

"Mom," said Martha, who was standing between the two parties, caught in the middle between wanting to reach out to Brenna and not wanting to cause her sister and mother anymore pain. "Dad died in a car accident, coming home from the pub. His death had nothing to do with a case."

"Don't lay dad's death on me, mom." said Brenna, who felt her own anger flaring at her mother accusation. "You know that he always took the most difficult assignments. It's what he was good at, everyone knew that. You never objected to any affliction they might have had on his health."

"You have a lot of nerve even showing up here." said Kathleen, "Do you have any idea how much you tore dad apart during the last few hours. Do you know how much he worried about you?"

"We all worried about you." said Martha, who was trying desperately to keep this argument from escalating into an ugly scene.

"Speak for yourself, Martha." spat Kathleen, her eyes flaming, "I stopped worry about your safety and well-being a long time ago. You don't deserve to be here, Brenna."

"Yes, I do." Said Brenna, "He was my father as well as yours."

"He might have been your father, but you stopped being his daughter when you stopped doing what he believed in." said Nora, with the same cool, detached manner that she had first greeted Brenna with. "You abandoned us all Brenna. And for what? You have nothing to show for your life of crime, and now you show up here, dishonoring your father's memory and his profession with your presence."

Brenna's heart was being ripped out of her chest, the more her mother spoke. What made it worse was that there was nothing she could say in her own defense. She had never felt so keenly the guilt of her crimes. A mother's sharp rebuke is more effective than any courtroom judge. And for Brenna, it was even worse. She saw no forgiveness in either her mother or Kathleen. Only Martha seemed to be somewhat softened by Brenna's situation, but she was clearly not on her side, not wanting to speak up in the face of her mother and sister's hostility.

"Leave, Brenna." said Nora, "There is nothing for you here." With that last, cold rejection, she turned and walked heavily into the church.

Kathleen was not slow to follow her. It seemed that even being in Brenna's presence was nothing short of odious to her. However, she still stopped long enough to deliver one last cutting remark. "Do you realize now that family is far more important than money?"

"I am back because of family." Protested Brenna, "I came back because father died. I know that it's too late, but I wanted to try and make things right."

"And did you think we would all welcome you back with open arms? Life isn't like that, Brenna. We read what we sow."

"I never expected you to welcome me back." said Brenna, "I only wanted to pay my respects. I thought that you would at least see why that was important to me."

Kathleen glared at her, before replying. "Well, you thought wrong." With that, Kathleen to disappeared into the church.

Brenna stood frozen for a moment, to numb with grief and surprise to say anything. She had never dreamed that something like this would happen. She had never thought that her family would reject her to the point where she would be barred from her own father's funeral. That was the ultimate pain for her. And she knew that she had no right to complain. She shouldn't have expected anything less. It was all she deserved. She had been a fool that coming back like this would have changed anything. She should never have come back.

She felt the sharp sting of the tears on her eyes. She turned sharply away and began to walk down the steps of the church. "Brenna, wait, please." said Martha, trying to stop her.

"Why? You heard them yourself. I don't deserve to be here."

"Brenna, please. They're grieving. They're in shock. They don't know what they're saying."

"But the sentiment is still the same. You can't deny it."

Martha grabbed her arm. "Brenna, don't leave. You can stay in the back"

"Away from prying eyes, you mean." Brenna saw the look of hurt flash across her eyes; Martha's offer had been genuine. "Martha, I'm sorry. But they're right. I have no place here, and I won't disrupt dad's funeral. I owe him that much, at least."

Brenna didn't stay to wait for Martha might have said next. She just wanted to leave before anymore pain came her direction.

She was so distracted by her emotions that she wasn't looking properly where she was going. She didn't see the man who was in her way until she had run straight into him. "Oh, I'm sorry." She mumbled in apology, not even bothering to look at who she had run into.

Se had been intending to make a quick get away, but the man's voice stopped. "Are you are all right?" The question was asked with such a tone of compassion and genuine concern, that Brenna found herself stopped in her tracks, and her eyes drawn to the man's face. He was slightly taller than herself, short black hair and dark eyes that matched the concerned tone of his voice.

It was the first real expression of understanding that Brenna had encountered through the whole of that day. The callous rejection of her family had left her shaken and scarred. Perhaps she could be forgiven for letting her guard down after such an event. "I…I'm not."

"What's the matter? Is there anything I can do to help you?"

"No, nothing. I just need to be left alone for awhile."

The man did not move away, but instead, his eyes showed recognition, and he said, "You're Brenna Ryan, aren't you?"

Brenna's face snapped up to meet his, her eyes flashing with uncertainty. "What? How did you know?"

"I know your father." He said, "I worked with him."

"You're with the police."

"Not officially. I'm more like a consultant." Brenna, again due to her emotions, really didn't have the presence of mind to question this, or just what type of consultant this man was supposed to be. In any case, he didn't give her much chance, as he continued speaking. "He was a good man, your father. I can't imagine what you must be going through. This must be a terrible blow for you."

Brenna hardly knew what to say. To find such an understanding in a complete stranger when she hadn't found it in her own family was overwhelming to say the least. She suddenly felt very grateful to this man for even speaking to her; perhaps good Samaritans really did exist. "I wish that I could have been here to say goodbye. We were so close."

"I know, he often talked about you. Said that you were his favorite of your family, his little raven. He loved you a great deal."

"He did?" Brenna could not help feeling some doubt. After all, what if what her family said had been true? What is she really had disappointed her father?

"Oh yes, to the last, he said that he was proud of you. He always said you were the most like him, in everything."

These words lifted at least some of the burden from Brenna's soul. She knew when someone was lying, and this man clearly wasn't. She didn't think that he actually could tell a lie. This man, whoever he was, had a good soul. She smiled at him, and said, with a deep gratitude, "Thank you. You don't know what those words mean to me."

"My pleasure. Again, you have my sincerest sympathies."

Brenna could only nod her head, before she turned and walked away from the church. She did not stop to think there were several inconsistencies in that last encounter. If the man had been so close to his father as he had been suggesting, why had he not asked her why she wasn't staying for the funeral? How could he have not been aware of her past? Why had he never even told her his name?

The truth was that Brenna had made a terrible mistake. The stranger who had stopped her was no Good Samaritan, and he was not a good man. Lying was an art form for him, along with every sort of sin on the earth, the more twisted and cruel, the better he liked it.

And he had known a lot about Olivier Ryan. But Olivier had found out a little bit too much about him. That was why he had killed him. That was why he was here now, not to mourn, but to watch in quiet satisfaction at the pain he had caused. Oliver Ryan, even beyond the grave, would learn that one did not lightly cross James Moriarty.

Brenna did not know it, but she had just met the most brilliant, dangerous criminal mastermind in the whole of Europe, and the man responsible for her father's death. Nor would it be the last time that she ever saw him.

* * *

 _ _Present Day…__

Yet another day of tense undercover work followed for Brenna. She had to admit that she was starting to feel a little frustrated. All she could really get out of Ramona was that the director of the museum was tense about something. She still hadn't even gotten a look at the Vermeer, which was quite annoying. She was sure that she would be able to prove it a fake if she only got fifteen minutes in front of the painting. But Ramona was adamant. She was paranoid, and becoming even more so as the date of the unveiling drew closer. Brenna knew that paranoid people made very dangerous people, regardless of what profession they happened to be a part of. If she didn't uncover something soon, she feared that someone would get hurt, or worse.

At the end of that day, she returned to her flat, tired and frustrated. However, she didn't need to open the door to know that someone was already inside. The door was unlocked, and when she came in, she found that Shane was sitting on the couch, watching the news. "You'd think that the BBC would have caught onto the fact that this Vermeer everybody is so excited about is a fake." He said, gesturing to the story which was currently playing on the screen. "All these shots of the painting should have tipped someone off by now."

"Those are well-known copies of what the painting might have looked like had Vermeer been able to finish it." said Brenna, "They won't do us any good. And by the way, thank you for letting yourself in."

"I did knock, Brenna." said Shane, "But you didn't answer. At that stage, I figured that not saying no meant yes. You know that's the rule. How else did you manage to steal those Russian statuettes out of St. Petersburg?"

"And how many times do I have to tell you that bringing up previous crimes isn't helping me?" said Brenna, "If you don't mind me asking, what exactly are you doing here, besides drinking my wine and monopolizing my dog's affections?"

Shane looked down at Lily, who was curled up beside Shane, obviously enjoying the attention she was getting. "What can I say; I have a way with the ladies."

"Right, and which of your three divorced wives would agree with you, I wonder." said Brenna, as she poured herself a glass of wine. After the day she had had, she needed it.

Shane turned off the television. "Guilty as charged, only because I don't want to get involved in that conversation."

"Only because you'd know I'd win." said Brenna, with a smirk. She sat done on the couch beside Shane. She noticed the piece of paper that was resting by Shane's side, and rolled her eyes. "Oh, and you also decided to help your self to my mail. You're the model of an ideal house guest, Shane."

"To be fair, you did leave it out in the open for anyone to see. Besides, I didn't read all of it. I only got past the name of your sister, and I lost interest. If you don't mind me asking, what exactly are you doing exchanging letters with your sister, Martha? Last I heard, the two of you weren't even speaking to each other."

"Not that it's any of your business, Shane, but Martha sent me a letter about a month ago. She wants to try and heal the breach between us. It's not been easy, but we're trying to make it work. Is that all you wanted to know about my personal life?"

"All right, all right, it's your life and your family. Besides, I've got something else to talk to you about, something that's a bit more important."

"I had a thought that you might. So, what are you really here for?"

"I'm just here to give you an update on my investigation into big sister."At Brenna's blank stare, Shane sighed in impatience and explained. "You remember, a few weeks ago when I told you that you should be keeping an eye for any suspicious behavior on Alice's part? I would have hoped that you would take the advice of your former tutor to heart."

Brenna groaned as she recalled now just what Shane was referring to. Shane had brought er evidence which suggested that Alice was in cahoots with Mycroft Holmes, and that the two of them were somehow involved in a conspiracy which she was at the center of. "To be perfectly honestly, I had put it out of my mind. Alice hasn't been acting differently at all towards me, and Mycroft has kept his distance for the most part."

"Brenna, you saw the records of their phone conversations. You can't deny that something is a little off."

"It could also be that Mycroft just happened to get in touch with Alice when he first found out that I was starting to date Sherlock. Alice was just another person to keep an eye on me." Shane gave her a dubious look, and it was clear he didn't believe her. Brenna threw up her hands in annoyance. "Why am I trying to reason with you, of all people? You take delight in seeing conspiracy theories everywhere."

"Look, Brenna," said Shane, "I don't want to look for trouble between you and Alice. Honestly, I don't. She's been good for you even if I hate to admit it myself. But, I don't think that she's doing entirely right by you, and I have found out some more facts that I think you should be aware of. They're all from pretty reliable sources, too. So, please, just listen for a moment."

Brenna considered for a moment. It was true, Shane didn't like the establishment of law enforcement, and he had been the one who had taught her virtually everything about life as a forager and con artist. At the same time, he had also taught her the code of honor that she had adhered to strictly in her own exploits. He was one of the few people that she trusted. It was ironic, perhaps, considering the positions which both their lives had placed them in. Yet, she knew that Shane would never do anything to hurt her.

"Fine, I will listen, but I won't promise anything."

"I'll keep that in mind. To be begin with, I need to talk to you about the cases which your father was working on a few months before he died."

Brenna was puzzled. She hadn't really thought that Shane would open with this. "I thought that we were talking about Alice here. How exactly does my father's police work factor into that?"

"Trust me, we'll get to that. I know that since you were... away during the last few months of Olivier's life, you probably don't know a lot about the work which he was doing."

Brenna shook her head. "No, I don't really. Even when I was at home, dad never did like to talk about his work. He worked on a lot of sensitive cases, so there wasn't a lot that he could tell us." She found herself smiling ironically. "I never thought of it, but I suppose someone in our family was always keeping secrets. Maybe that's how I got so good at it."

"Well, it seems that Umbrella Man and Big Sister might have known a lot more than your family ever did. Some of their most recent phone conversations mentioned your father a few times. I had a hunch so I got in touch with a friend who works with the Dublin Police Department."

Brenna raised her eyebrows. "A friend, in the Dublin Police Department, you?"

"Okay, he thinks that I'm a detective working here in London, and I'll have you know that we've had a long and prosperous partnership."

"Of course, over hundreds of miles and separated by a body of water."

"And I fully intend that it will stay that way. Now, I won't get into details, but he owes me a favor. I got in touch with him, asked him if he could send over some old case files that Olivier worked on, particularly anything that might have been rather sensitive or out of the ordinary."

"Do I even want to know how you did that?"

"You probably don't. The important thing here is that it wasn't as easy as I would have expected to get ahold of those files. According to this contact I have, Oliver was behaving... strangely the past few months before the car accident. He was keeping odd hours, investigating crimes that seemed to have no connection to each other, but which he seemed to think were significant. He also apparently started keeping two separate records for whatever files or notes he kept. What he handed into his superiors wasn't always the same as what he kept for his own personal files."

"So, he was withholding evidence?" said Brenna, in disbelief, "That doesn't sound like him at all."

"I don't know if it was anything as bad as that. But, almost the day after your father died, my contact witnessed a bunch of secretive, government types pretty much clearing out your dad's office. They took everything that might have been connected with his old cases. Luckily, my contact knows how to pull some strings."

"Wow, this is all getting so complicated, that I can hardly keep up, could we please get to a point?"

"Brenna, you're not taking this very seriously."

"Well, how can I take it seriously, when I haven't heard or seen anything of use yet, Shane? I'm sorry, but your going to have to give me something else to go on than just gossip and second-hand witnessing."

"That's actually just what I was going to do." Shane set his wine glass down on the coffee table, next to his bag which e had brought in with him. Opening the bag, he withdrew a fat sheaf of folders, containing numerous amount of paper. From what Brenna could see, they were copious amounts of hand-written notes (all of which were in her father's hand writing), crime scene photos and sketches, and any other number of familiar specimens that she recognized as being evidence.

Shane set the pile of folders in front of Brenna on the coffee-table, and declared as though his point were proven beyond dispute, "There you have it, Brenna. This is only half of what my contact could give me. The rest are on the way. And getting to my point, I want to draw your attention to the very top folder."

Somewhat hesitantly (but not entirely able to hide her admiration that Shane had once again proven that he was still as clever as she was in managing to con a police officer to hand over case files to a complete stranger) picked up the top folder. "What exactly is this and what am I looking for in it?" she asked, as she began to look through it.

"That's the original report on the accident that killed your father." said Oliver, "My contact also sent that over at my request. I assume that you've seen the official one."

"Well, yes, Alice did give that to me soon after she caught me, just so I would know the particulars of how my father died." As she looked down at the report, her voice trailed off. She began to realize that there were subtle differences in the report that she was seeing now, as opposed to the one which she had read nearly three years before. The pictures of the two reports were not the same; they had been taken from different angles, and the exact same evidence had been interpreted in slightly different ways. Initial statements from witnesses had been altered to give the same scene a very different conclusion.

"According to this case file, the first officers on the scene of the car accident noticed signs of foul play. They suggested a deeper investigation. That's completely different"

Shane nodded, a serious expression on his face. "I know. That's what this all comes down, Brenna. I've come to believe that your father wasn't just killed in that car accident. I think there's a good chance he might have been murdered. And that one of these cases was responsible for that."

Brenna could hardly believe what she was hearing. She could tell from Shane's face that he was not treating this matter with his usual devil may care attitude. He wouldn't have tried to get something more out of her father's death. She felt unnerved, and unsure of what to think. The idea that her father could have been murdered was something she had never considered. That someone could have been trying to cover it up was even more disturbing.

"If my father was murdered, why would someone want to cover it up, and why would Alice be involved in it? From all that she's ever told me of her dealings with him, she never had anything but the highest respect for him."

"I'm afraid that I don't know the answer to that. The only thing that my contact could tell me was that the orders regarding your father's death seemed to come from someone pretty high up. That happen to sound like anyone you know?"

Brenna took a deep breath. As much as she hated to admit it, Shane had captured her attention. "You mentioned that Mycroft and Alice were talking about something like this. You think that she knows something about this?"

"I think that's a lot more involved than that. I have a suspicion that she's known about this all along, and she hasn't told you."

"That's absurd." said Brenna, though even she was beginning to doubt that. "Why wouldn't she tell me?"

"I don't know for certain." Shane admitted, "This isn't the only activity that I've been picking up between Umbrella Man and her of late. They've been pretty chatty lately."

"His name is Mycroft, Shane. And you're only going to get yourself into trouble if you keep poking around with anything that has to do with him."

"Don't worry, Brenna, I know what I'm doing. Besides, I like a challenge. Your name and that of your father have come up a lot recently in their conversations. They both seem very concerned about keeping you in the dark about something."

Brenna shook her head. "Shane, I can't believe that Alice would be keeping something like this from me. I can trust her, I know."

"I'm not disputing that. I'm just saying that maybe you should be open to the possibility that there is something she isn't trusting _you_ with, whatever her reasons might be."

"Than what would you suggest I do?" demanded Brenna, "Waltz in and ask politely if she knows if my father was murdered? I'm sure that would go over well."

"Brenna, please calm down. You honestly think that I would have given you this information if I didn't want to try and help you. If your father was really murdered, than I felt you had a right to know."

Brenna drew in a deep breath. "I understand, Shane, but what do you expect me to do with this information?"

"My advice, don't do anything. Just pay attention, pay _really_ close attention. You might find out more than you think if you do." He got to his feet and headed for the door. However, at the last second, he turned and said, "Oh, by the way, that iron bitch you're working with, she might be paranoid about the painting being discredited as a fake, but not even she could let it just sit there without other pairs of eyes watching it for her. Ask one of the security guards on the night shift. You might learn something."

With that, Shane left his tenant to consider what he had said, and all it's implications.

* * *

 **Please, read and review.**


	4. Arrest

Flashback II: Arrest:

 _Two and a half years previously…_

Brenna was not one to easily give up. She had been denied a chance to even mourn her father at his funeral, but she wouldn't miss out on his final burial. It was also easier to stay hidden in a cemetery. She had done her research ahead of time, and knew where her father was being buried. She somehow managed to find her way there, though she never could really remember how she actually managed to do so.

She wandered around the pathways, her mind a blank, save for the memories of her father that continually played through her mind. The sky was covered with cold, gray clouds. A light mist was falling. There was hardly anyone else in the cemetery. So, it gradually began to be obvious to her that she was not alone.

It was not long before she saw the woman standing off a little ways from her. Even from the back, Brenna knew who she was. Her short brown hair, the way she held herself with authority and confidence were an exact description of the person who had been chasing her almost as long as she had been on the run. Brenna looked around her, and saw that there were three other people following closely behind her, even if they were trying to stay out of sight. She knew when she was being pursued. There used to be a time when she would have welcomed the thrill of the chase; right now, she found that she was tired of running.

She went up to the woman, who didn't turn to look at her. "You've led me on quite a chase these past few months, Brenna."

"I've been running for four years. What's made the past few months any different?"

"I will admit, I lost you after you stole that Raphael from Amsterdam. If this hadn't happened, it might have taken me a lot longer."

For once, Brenna didn't have a smart response. "How did you know I would come back?"

"I saw that your father had died. I know that you would be coming back for his funeral. You cared too much about him to not come back and pay your respects. You loved him to much."

Brenna sighed deeply. "Every safe, no matter how well built, has a weak spot of some sort. I guess you got to mine faster than I thought you could have."

Alice Bennett at last turned to face her, her gray eyes looking at her penetratingly. "The question is, what will you do now?"

"What do you mean? I'm standing right in front of you. All you have to do is call in your goons to come and get the cuffs on me."

"That's true, I could do that." said Alice, "However, what good will that do for either of us? You've always ran. You live for the thrill of the chase, Brenna. It's your addiction. What I want to know is this your bottom line? Are you going to keep running? Because if you are, arresting you here and now will simply be a waste of time."

Brenna stared back at her, not bothering to deny what she had said. She knew exactly what Alice was talking about. She had been running, and somewhere along the line, she had come to the point where she was simply unable to stop. Right now, the very thought of continuing made her feel completely exhausted, physically and emotionally. "I'm tired of running." said Brenna, softly, "This is the end of the chase for me." She held out her hands. "I'm turning myself in."

Alice stared at her for a long time, before she nodded. She knew that Brenna wasn't lying. However, she didn't put the hand cuffs on Brenna right away. Instead, she took one of her hands and shook it. "It's good to meet you, Brenna Ryan."

Despite herself, Brenna felt a little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Same to you, Alice Bennett."

In the first meeting of thief and cop, pursuer and pursued, it was not a confrontation of opponents, rather of equals. And it was a first meeting that left in their minds an inkling of an idea: that they could perhaps be something more, something like partners.

* * *

 _ _Present Day…__

From the start, there had been a connection between Alice and Brenna, as surprising as that had turned out to be. And from that first day in the cemetery, Brenna had felt like she had at last found someone she could trust. It had felt… nice, which was something that she had not been expecting. After four years of never trusting anyone but herself, it had felt good to have a friend, however unlikely it might have been.

Alice had provided stability in her life that she had lacked. She had supported Brenna when no one else had. She had given her a chance. Over the years, Alice had been the one person that she could count on. She didn't want that to change. That was why she didn't want to believe what Shane had told her. She didn't want to believe that Alice could have been keeping a secret like the possibility that her father had been murdered, and doing so in collaboration with Mycroft Holmes of all people.

However, the day after Shane had told her his information, she arrived at the Yard earlier than she normally did. What she witnessed there planted the first seeds of doubt in her mind.

When she came in, she saw Patrick. "Hey, Brenna. You're here early." He said, looking up from his paper as he came in.

"Yeah, I really couldn't sleep last night. But I got an idea that I wanted to run past Alice."

"Well, a word of warning. Iron Lady is in one of her moods.

"Really, what makes you say that?"

Patrick jerked his head to the conference room, where Brenna was beginning to hear the tell tale signs of Alice's temper dangerously flaring. "What's set her off this early?"

Patrick shrugged. "Beats me. She got a phone call about twenty minutes ago and disappeared into the conference room. She's been in there ever since. It must be important."

"Well, I need to be at the Hickman in an hour. I'll have to brave it."

"Better you than me, Brenna."

Brenna approached the conference room. Alice's back was to her and she was so absorbed in the conversation that she neither saw nor heard Brenna's coming. However, she had left the door open just a crack, and Brenna heard her end of the exchange. Those first words made her freeze. "Look, I don't care what game you're playing, Mr. Holmes. I'm worried about Brenna's safety first and foremost. If he's making some sort of big play, I need to know about it."

Brenna's mind went blank when she heard this. Her mouth dropped open, and shock and surprise made her freeze in place. That might have been for the best. Had she made any indication that she was eavesdropping, in all probability, Alice would have abruptly ended the conversation, before Brenna could have gained anything useful from it.

"You're trying to tell me that strapping bombs to people and threatening to blow them up while your brother runs around trying to figure out the puzzle, all while the timer ticks down to doom's day, isn't his style? We both know he's obsessed. He had you in his sights for years until your brother proved to be a more tantalizing target… Yes, but Brenna is involved with Sherlock. How do you know that he won't try and involve her? That could put her in danger."

There were a few moments of silence. And when Alice spoke again, her voice had become low and dangerous. "You listen to me, Mr. Holmes. British government or not, I made a promise that I intend to keep. If anything happens to Brenna or if her safety is compromised in anyway, I'll make sure that he knows and you can imagine that he won't be happy about it… And don't think you can threaten me, Mr. Holmes. You might be the British Government, but you're lacking two very important advantages when it comes to dealing with me: I'm a wife and a mother. Any man should know they can't hope to win against that."

Angrily, she ended the call, and collapsed in one of the chairs, rubbing her eyes in obvious frustration. She didn't even notice Brenna standing just in front of the door, and that she had heard every word of a conversation that she shouldn't have. She was in complete shock. She was hardly able to process it.

Shane had been right. Alice had been talking to Mycroft Holmes. She was certain of that now. There was no other Holmes who could be said to have the entire British Government in the palm of his hand. And they had been talking about her. Alice was hiding something from her. Brenna would never have believed it if she hadn't heard it herself.

It was fortunate that Alice happened to turn around and see her right at that moment, or Brenna might have been frozen in shock for quite some time. "Brenna, don't scare me by sneaking up on me like that."

"Oh, sorry," said Brenna, "I just didn't want to come in until that little conversation of yours was over."

For a brief second, Alice's eyes flashed with concern. "How much of that did you hear?"

Brenna had just had a terrible shock. However, many years of living by her wits and hiding what she truly thought now came in handy. Her face showed complete nonchalance and her next words were so artlessly delivered that even Alice, who was most of the time wise to her many meanings, believed it. "Oh, no. I heard nothing. You just sounded pretty upset, like you were ready to rip the head off of whoever was talking to you."

Alice seemed almost relived by this statement. Brenna saw it, and her heart sank. It was brought even lower when she heard her next words. "It was just a private matter. Nothing you need to be concerned about."

Brenna felt a stab of disappointment. Alice wasn't going to tell her anything. Alice didn't trust her, not completely, at least. And Brenna, despite herself, felt more than a little betrayed. What could be so serious that Alice wasn't telling her? And what did any of it have to do with Mycroft Holmes?

She had no answers to these questions, but from that moment, she would begin to doubt Alice. And in time, it would grow to the point where she neither knew truth or falsehood in the one person she thought that she could trust the most.

* * *

 **Please read and review.**


	5. Going Nowhere

Going Nowhere:

Alice made no more mention of the phone call which Brenna had overheard. As soon as she could, Alice had risen to her feet, and was already moving into her own office, clearly thinking that the manner was closed. "So, you're here before you have to get to your undercover assignment at the Hickman. I'm guessing you must have some sort of plan."

Brenna forced herself to put aside her burgeoning doubts, and focused on the matter at hand. "Actually, it's a plan that Shane came up with."

"Oh, really?" Alice said with a frown. "I'm not really sure if I like the way which this is going." The dynamic between Shane and Alice could best be described as respectful distrust. Alice had long suspected Shane Mastersen of being Brenna's mentor in the skills of thievery, and had never been entirely approving of the fact that he still played such a large role in Brenna's life. Shane, being who he was, was simply paranoid of the fact that Alice was a police officer. However, the two had developed a mutual respect in the past few years. They seemed to have come to an unspoken agreement: stay out of each others' way, look out for Brenna's best interest, and neither of them would feel a need to interfere in the life of the other.

Brenna was aware of this odd arrangement, and knew better than to mention Shane's name unless it was absolutely necessary. "Hear me out, all right? He actually had a good idea that fit within the confines of the law, for the most part."

Alice raised her eyebrows. "I had no idea that Shane was even capable of coming up with plans like that."

"Well, even he can surprise us once and awhile." said Brenna, "It's probably for the best; he would hate to be predictable."

"Right, exactly. So, what was this plan which actually fell within the confines of the law?"

"The night guards at the Hickman, he suggested that I should perhaps take a look at them." said Brenna, "Ramona's been pretty strict about who can get into the room with the Vermeer. But she can't have her eyes on it 24/7. There have to have been some guards on the night watch who have seen that painting."

"So, Shane's idea is to talk to some of the nightwatchmen?" said Alice, "That's a risk. The guards who work at museums aren't always known to be of an artistic bent."

"But, it's the only idea that we've had so far. At this point, I would probably take anything."

"All right," said Alice, "I'm at the end of my rope when it comes to ideas, too. Try to make the inquiries discretely. I don't want anyone at the Hickman becoming more suspicious than they already are."

"Give me some credit." said Brenna, "I'm not arousing any suspicion. If nothing else, I'm sick to death of kow-towing to her royal bitchiness, Ramona Wenceslas."

"Good. It'll make you more comfortable coming back to work here for me. You had better get going, though. The way traffic is supposed to be, you might be late. I'd hate for you to lose the job which you just got."

"Don't remind me." muttered Brenna, as she got up to leave.

"Oh, by the way, have you heard anything from Sherlock in the last few days?"

Brenna paused at the doorway, and looked back at her, her brow furrowed. "What do you mean? He seemed to be on the verge of being given a case by Lestrade. I don't always hear from him when that happens."

"Than you don't know?"

"Like what?"

"Only what nearly the entire department is buzzing about." said Alice, "I should probably tell you, as you've a right to know. Someone has been strapping bombs onto people all over London, and forcing Sherlock to solve impossible to solve cold cases. If Sherlock doesn't solve them in time..." Alice trailed off.

Brenna had been listening to all of this with mounting horror. She had heard none of this, as she had been absorbed in the Hickman case. But now, all thought of that seemed to pale in comparison.

"Sherlock hasn't told me any of that."

"I imagine he didn't want to worry you."

"Or he forgot. It's really hard to tell with him sometimes."

"Maybe I shouldn't have told you"

"No, no, I'm all right. I'll be fine. Just... in case I don't hear from Sherlock, would you tell me anything that happens."

"Yes, of course, Brenna. I promise."

"Thanks." Brenna left the office, mind whirling with a storm of emotions that she wasn't entirely sure that she could be able to name. As soon as she was in the elevator, she took out her phone and called Sherlock. She was disappointed, though not altogether surprised, when he didn't answer, and it went straight to voice-mail.

"Sherlock," she said, "When you get this, call me. Actually, call me. Don't ignore me like you sometimes do. I'm worried about you. Don't do anything stupid, all right?"

She hung up the phone and heaved a sigh. Sometimes, trying to find a balance with Sherlock Holmes was a major headache. Then again, who had ever said that trying to love a high-functioning sociopath was easy?

* * *

Normally, Brenna could always find a reason to enjoy working with the police. Granted, not every day was filled with excitement and death-defying encounters (actually, those mostly seemed to happen when Sherlock was working the cases with her). However, even on the dullest days, she could find something to excited about, even if that one thing was to remind herself that she could probably be in a worse place; namely, prison.

However, she could not imagine how anyone could possibly enjoy working at a place like the Hickman Gallery, especially if one had to endure the icy judgment of Ramona Wenceslas. When Brenna was finally able to make it through the snarl of early morning London traffic, she was greeted by Wenceslas almost as soon as she got into the buildings, her arms crossed and a disapproving glare making her already sharp features even more pronounced and threatening.

"You're late, Miss King." she said, her tone suggesting that this was the greatest sin which could ever be committed.

Brenna had been playing the part of a fawning sycophant, who seemed to imply that the sun both rose and set at Wenceslas' mere word. In keeping with that, she immediately willed herself to wilt under the glare, and stutter, almost as though she were terrified that she would lose her job. "I'm sorry, Miss Wenceslas. I thought I gave myself time with the cab ride. I'm only five minutes late, but..."

"When I hire someone, Miss King, regardless of what their position is, I expect promptness." said Wenceslas, icily. "Five minutes is still a breech of the time when your contract says you should be here, leaving all the rest of your qualifications in doubt."

Brenna's eyes grew wide, and she scrambled to recover, pleading desperately with Wenceslas. "Please, don't say that, Ma'am. I'm... I'm so sorry. I'll do better next time, I swear I will."

"See to it that you do." said Wenceslas, though Brenna almost thought that she saw a spark of satisfaction in her eyes, as though she were enjoying her perceived power over Brenna. "Another slip-up like this, and I will consider showing you the door altogether. Consider that the next time you think you have given yourself enough time."

Brenna nodded, and looked down, forcing herself to look properly ashamed and humbled in the face of Wenceslas' superior wisdom. Inside, however, she was seething. This was the first time that she had had to put up with a tongue-lashing from Wenceslas. Each one only made her realize just how much she was going to enjoy seeing her fall from her high perch.

"Now, that we have taken care of that, I do actually have something of consequence for you to take care of today, if you can discipline your time enough to complete it." Wenceslas had already turned around and was walking towards her office, without even bothering to wait for Brenna or see if she was following. Brenna, burying her desire to punch Wenceslas' right in her smug face, scurried after her, being careful to stay one step behind her temporary boss. "The official unveiling of the Vermeer will be in a few days. I want to be sure that our museum is ready for anything."

"What sort of anything are you implying, Ma'am?" asked Brenna, "Surely you don't think that anyone would actually try to cause trouble at the unveiling of such a masterpiece?"

"You can never be to sure in this day and age, Miss King. I have received threats from 'colleagues' about how they would disrupt something that I was planning, whether it was the purchase of a famous painting or a gallery opening."

"And you never reported them to the police?" said Brenna, casing out awe and astonishment.

"And what would the police do?" said Ramona dismissively, "Look into the threat, only to come back and say they could prove nothing conclusive? No, in the art world you have to look for yourself, because no one else will."

That was one of the few things which Wenceslas. had said which Brenna could fully agree with, but she certainly wasn't going to say that. Instead, she made a show of considering this the very best bit of wisdom anyone had ever given her. "Of course, Ma'am. I'll check all the security, the guards, our plans for the unveiling, everything. I promise you, I won't overlook anything."

Ramona paused, and turned to look at her with a thin-lipped smile. "You see, that is the kind of work, I like. See to it that you keep it up."

She sailed away, Brenna pretending to be ecstatic that she had received a compliment from her supposed idol. However, through the gritting teeth of her smile, she muttered, "Keep it up? I'll keep it up, Iron Bitch, until I find something that will bring you down, once and for all."

As Brenna got down to the work of examining the security for the Hickman, she was actually quite surprised that Ramona Wenceslas, or any of her previous successors has not bothered to invest in better security. The security for the Hickman only seemed to extend to having an ID card for each employee. Not even the most secure rooms had fingerprint scans. There were cameras in all the rooms, but only from one angle, instead of trying to cover multiple areas of the same space. It may not have been as easy as some of the home safes which she had taken, but it would have been easy enough to circumvent from the outside if one was really determined.

It was those years of thievery that made her begin to notice a suspicious pattern within the workings of the Hickman's security. The security cameras had been undergoing a series of what appeared to be random malfunctions over the past few weeks, wherein the cameras into different rooms of the museum went dark. However, the security cameras seemed to go dark in the room where the Vermeer was located for the longest period of time. She couldn't help but feel that wasn't a coincidence.

With these suspicious goings on, she wanted to know which security guard happened to be on duty when the black-outs occurred. After a little while of searching, she found exactly who she was looking for.

His name was Alex Woodbridge. Besides Wenceslas, he was one of the few who seemed to enter the room with the Vermeer regularly. She had crossed paths with him a few times, as his shift always ended right when hers' was beginning. He always had a smile for her, even if they really hadn't had a proper conversation. She could only hope that it would be enough for her to get some information out of him.

As luck would have it, he always happened to walk right by her office on his way back down to the locker rooms. Ramona was also ensconced in her office on a conference call and wouldn't be out for at least another hour, so she was fairly certain that she could talk to Woodbridge without being interrupted.

"Alex Woodbridge?" She called out to him, as he walked by her office at the end of his shift.

Woodbridge stopped and turned to regard her with a smile. "Oh, hello, Miss King, was there something I could do for you?"

"Actually, I was hoping to speak with you about something?"

"Really, I'm off from my shift in a few minutes."

"Oh, it shouldn't take to long." said Brenna, beaming him her most sincere and charming smile, "I just wanted to ask you a few things about security for the unveiling."

Woodbridge looked at her, and as he did so, his smile seemed to falter. Brenna thought that she saw a flash of worry in his eyes. He looked around surreptitiously, as though searching for some sort of excuse to avoid her. However, he was out in the open, and to refuse at this point would have been difficult. "Um, okay. I'm not really scheduled to be here for that, but I guess we could talk about it."

"Wonderful." said Brenna, as she stepped aside, allowing Woodbridge to enter her office. As he sat down, looking distinctly uncomfortable, she closed the door and went over to her side of the desk. "Now, then, I just have a few questions for you. As you know, the unveiling for the Vermeer is going to be taking place in a few days."

"Yes, I'm well aware of that."

"And, of course, I'm sure that everyone who works is anxious for everything to go smoothly. This is incredibly important, not only for the art world, but for the Hickman itself. Our reputation could be greatly enhanced by this unveiling."

She was deliberately echoing language which she had hear Ramona use on more than one occasion. She was trying to gauge just what Woodbridge's reaction would be. Sometimes, it was useful to know how loyal one's workers were to them, even if they were the low man on the totem pole like Woodbridge. Loyalty really didn't have a hierarchy.

However, as she was speaking, she saw Woodbridge flinch ever so slightly, and his expression showed a slight hint of distaste and impatience. "No offense, Miss King, but I do have to be off my shift on time. My supervisor doesn't like paying us overtime."

So, he didn't necessarily like hearing Ramona praised to the skies, even if it was only an oblique hint. He also didn't seem to be much of an art lover. Both aspects were ones that she might be able to use to her advantage.

"Of course, forgive me. Well, to get right down to business, I have been going over the security for the event, and I have encountered a few things which concern me. I'm sure that you're not in anyway to blame, but they all seemed to happen on your shift, so I was hoping that you could give me some idea as to what was going on."

Woodbridge's entire body tensed when he heard this. In his eyes, fear suddenly appeared. He had also broken into a cold sweat. She was getting close. "What... exactly are you talking about?"

"As you know, the security cameras in this facility operate 24/7. However, three times over the past two weeks there have been a series of black-outs. At first, I thought that they were random occurrences, but then I noticed a pattern." She handed him the print out of her findings. "See, they seem to consistently be dark longest in the corridors right outside the Vermeer room and inside the Vermeer gallery itself. I couldn't understand why that was, or why they weren't reported. Was everything all right on those nights, Woodbridge?"

Woodbridge stared at the read out for several seconds. Brenna observed him closely. His anxiety began to manifest itself more overtly. His hands began to shake and his face grew pale. Finally, he threw the read out on the desk in front of his and said, "I knew it. I knew something like this would happen. I should have stayed out of it. I almost wish that I had never seen that painting."

"What exactly are you talking about?" Brenna asked.

Woodbridge suddenly looked up at her, realizing, perhaps for the first time, the import of what he had just said. His eyes grew wide with horror and he swallowed hard. "Nothing. I didn't mean anything by that. Nothing at all."

"Mr. Woodbridge, if you think that there is anything wrong here you should tell me. I might be able to help you."

"I can't tell you anything." said Woodbridge, in disbelief, "I like you, Miss King. You seem nice enough, but you're basically Wenceslas' lap dog."

Brenna raised an eyebrow, and found herself smirking. "Really? Is that what they're saying about me here?"

Woodbridge turned bright red and looked away. "I, well, I don't be rude, Miss King. But I know that whatever I say here isn't protected. You'll just turn around and tell everything to Wenceslas."

Brenna looked long and hard at Woodbridge, contemplating her next move. She might be taking a risk revealing her cover, but she knew that Woodbridge wasn't lying to her. If she wanted to get any information, she would have to try and earn his trust. "Well, I'm certainly glad that my performance has been convincing."

Woodbridge's eyes turned back to her, and the anxiety she had seen before had turned to confusion. Brenna could well imagine why. She had deliberately dropped her sunny, almost sickeningly sweet tone of voice, and was now back to her usual manner of speaking. Nor was she making a point to disguise the slight contempt in her tone. "What do you mean, Miss King?"

"I mean that I don't work for Ramona Wenceslas. You literally couldn't pay me to work for that woman. Actually, technically, I suppose I am getting paid to do that since I'm here undercover, but that's beside the point."

Woodbridge stared at her. "You work with the police? But, what are you doing here?"

"My superiors believe that there is something going on with the Vermeer. We've received information that it Wenceslas might have acquired it by illegal means, not to mention that we don't even know if it's the real thing. Any information which you could give us might help bring her to justice. Can you tell me why the security systems have been tampered with?"

Woodbridge seemed to consider for a few seconds whether or not he could trust her, before he finally took a deep breath and said, "Wenceslas asked me to do it. She told me to start shutting down the security systems over the past few weeks, all at different times. She also told me that I shouldn't let anyone know about it, or report them. I didn't know why, but I've learned not to question her on it. A few days ago, I got an e-mail from my supervisor telling me that we were shutting down the cameras for two hours the day before the unveiling in order to update and effect repairs."

Brenna leaned back in her chair, thinking. "My guess is that she was trying to create what looked like random malfunctions so that she would have an excuse to the get the systems off-line, but why?"

"Like I said, I thought that it was weird to, but I think I know why now. There's something going on wit h that Vermeer. I've taken a peek at it a couple times when I've been patrolling, and there's something about it that just seems... wrong."

"Wrong? What do you mean? Do you know anything about Vermeer?"

"No, I mean, I'm no expert at art. I got to admit, this is mainly just a way for me to pay rent. But there's something about that painting that seems out of place."

"I don't suppose you would care to elaborate a little?"

Woodbridge hesitated, still more than a little uncomfortable. "Look, I want to trust you. I really do. And I also want to help stop Wenceslas if she's doing something wrong, but I don't want to talk about it here. This may sound stupid and paranoid, but I don't feel safe here anymore."

"Have you received any sort of threat from Wenceslas or anyone else?"

"Not in so many words, but someone followed me home last night, and he didn't exactly look friendly. He was the tallest man that I had ever seen, with long legs and arms. He looked strong as a tree trunk, and he walked like a spider." A shudder passed through him at the memory. "I don't know what he wants with me, but I don't want to run into him again."

"If you tell us what you know," said Brenna, "the police will keep you safe. I promise."

Woodbridge seemed to consider for a moment, before he nodded. "All right, I'll help you."

"Good, thank you. Come by the station tonight at 8:00. Ask for Detective Inspector Alice Bennett of the White Collar Division."

"All right." said Woodbridge, as he got to his feet. "I should probably leave. I've been to long already."

He hurried to the door, before pausing and looking back at Brenna. "By the way, Miss King, thank you. I'll be really relieved to put this behind me. And I'm sorry if I offended you with what I said. You... you're okay."

"I'm glad to hear that. And don't worry about it, the role I'm playing, I would question your perception if you didn't think that about me. And don't worry, everything will be all right."

Woodbridge actually smiled a little bit, before he opened the door and left the room. Brenna took a moment to text Alice what she had arranged, before Ramona caught her in something other than working to pump up her ego. She could only hope that this latest development was finally going to lead to a break in the case. This was already going a bit too far for her liking.

* * *

Brenna had never relished her lunch breaks at the Yard quite so much as she did those at the Hickman. With Wenceslas growing more impossible with each passing day, she was starting to relish the moment when she would finally be able to expose her. and be done with this assignment.

There was a little cafe where she had lunch that was only a few minutes from the gallery. She normally just took her food to go, but she was both surprised and please to see two very familiar faces who had had the same idea eat there that day.

"Sherlock, John," She called when she saw them sitting there.

The two men heard her, John smiling and waving her over. Sherlock didn't react at all, as he normally did when he came across her in public. However, Brenna had been with him long enough to see the slight brightening in his eyes when he caught sight of her from across her a crowded room.

"Brenna, it's so good to see you." said John, as she joined them, "You're a welcome sight after all the running around we've been doing."

"Yes, so I've been hearing."

"Oh, so you know what's been going on for the past few days?" said John, "News travels fast."

"Not fast enough apparently for Sherlock to tell me." She looked over at Sherlock reprovingly. "I sent you a message, you know?"

"Oh, you did?" Sherlock responded, with his usual emotionless candor. "I didn't check. And even if I had, I've been to busy to respond."

"To busy?" said Brenna, sardonically, "Of course, I'm so sorry. I should have known better than to interrupt your obviously very important work of playing to the whims of some nameless psychopath who has nothing better to do than putting innocent people in danger."

"It's hardly been a challenge so far." said Sherlock, Brenna's annoyance sailing right over his head, "The cases so far have been rather simple. It's really been quite fascinating."

Brenna huffed and looked away. "Um, Sherlock?" said John, in his usual tone of reprimand whenever Sherlock stepped over the rules of decorum.

Sherlock looked from John to Brenna and back to John. "Not good?"

"Might want to show a little bit more tact, mate. In case you haven't noticed, your girlfriend's worried about you."

Sherlock turned a confused expression on Brenna. "You're worried about me, what on earth for?"

"Sherlock, even for you, this whole situation is a little extreme."

"Is it?"

Brenna rolled her eyes, and went back to eating. John, hoping that he could avoid an awkward span of silence (problems with Brenna was the last thing that Sherlock needed right now) asked, "So, Brenna, what brings you here?" John asked.

"I'm just trying to gain a little bit of breathing room before I have to go back under the fist of the Iron Bitch."

"Who?" John asked.

"My new temporary boss at the Hickman Gallery." said Brenna, "She makes you look like a saint, Sherlock, and that's saying something. I can't wait for this assignment to be over. Sherlock's not running you into the ground, is he?"

"I'm managing to keep up all right." said John. "I don't really have a choice. I have to keep up with Sherlock, or he would just get himself into trouble."

"I still don't see why you should be worried about me." said Sherlock, returning rather abruptly to the previous subject.

"Sherlock, you're going up against some sort of psychopath. That's the only way you can describe this guy's actions. And why does he pick now of all times to drop this load of cases on you?"

"She does have a point, Sherlock." said John, "I mean, has it occurred to you…"

"Probably." Sherlock finished.

"No, has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes, it's all meant for you."

"Yes, I know."

"Is it him, then? Moriarty?"

At the mention of this name, something stirred in Brenna's memory. She had heard the name 'Moriarty' before, the night when Sherlock had solved the case of the multiple serial suicides. Sherlock had said the name with an almost childish glee and anticipation, as though he couldn't wait for something to happen. However, that had been months ago. Sherlock hadn't brought it up again, and she had more or less forgotten it until the moment.

"Moriarty? Who's Moriarty?"

Sherlock explained. "The cabby who was responsible for those murders a few months ago told me that I had a fan, someone who had noticed me. He was sponsoring the cabby's murder spree; for every life he took, money went to his children. Before he died, the cabby told me that the name of this fan was Moriarty. Ever since, I've been expecting that this Moriarty would be making some sort of move, to test me."

"Test you for what?"

"I don't know." Sherlock honestly answered. He could see that Brenna's shoulders were tense. She was absorbed with swirling the different groups of food around on her plate in no coherent pattern. Perhaps for the first time, he realized that Brenna was indeed very much worried about him. He was not used to seeing her like this. "You still haven't told me why you're concerned about me."

"Sherlock, shouldn't it be obvious?" At his blank expression, Brenna sighed, trying to remember that she needed to be patient when it came to explaining these things to Sherlock. "I just don't want you to get hurt."

"I won't get hurt. That's hardly what the bomber wants."

"Sherlock, Moriarty, whoever he might be, seems to have developed an unhealthy interest in your life. He's stalking you, and I don't like it."

Their argument was cut short by a beep from the pink phone that hadn't left Sherlock's side for nearly three days. Three pips sounded, before a picture of a middle-aged woman with white hair and enough botox to obscure whatever she might have looked like originally appeared on the screen.

Sherlock looked at the picture for a moment in confusion. "That could be anybody."

"Well, it could be, yeah." said John, as he got to his feet, "Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed."

"How do you mean?"

"Lucky for you, Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly."

He went over to the television in the cafe and changed the channel to a program that Brenna recognized in passing. "That's Connie Prince." At Sherlock's mystified expression, she explained. "She runs a makeover show. She was something of a hit, I think, though I always found her irritating in the extreme."

Sherlock gave her a slightly disapproving look, obviously seriously questioning her sense of taste. "I see it in passing while flipping through channels, all right? You don't honestly think that I would waste my time on a show like that?"

Before Sherlock could answer, the pink phone rang. They both looked at the phone, Sherlock with guarded expectancy, as he already knew what would be coming, and Brenna, who felt her heart suddenly jump into her throat. Sherlock may not have seen any cause to worry. But that was all right, she would be able to worry for both of them quite easily.

Sherlock picked up the phone and said, "Hello?"

Brenna scooted a little closer so that she could hear. The voice on the other end sounded like that of an old woman, and she felt a shiver of horror skate up her spine. "This one is a bit defective. Sorry, she's blind. This is a funny one. I'll give you twelve hours."

Despite Sherlock's professed indifference to the welfare of the victims, Brenna thought that she saw him tense up ever so slightly when he heard these words. "Why are you doing this?" He demanded in a quiet voice.

"I like to watch you dance." The terrified woman answered, followed by a few seconds of sobbing, before the line abruptly went dead.

Brenna swallowed hard and looked at Sherlock. His face was unreadable, but he was already thinking a mile a minute. "I'm afraid I have to go." He said.

"All right." However, as he was getting up, she reached for one of his hands, and looked at him, pleading. "Sherlock, please be careful."

For a split second, Sherlock's face softened. He still didn't understand why she should be so worried about him, but he wouldn't argue against it. Besides, he was beginning to find that he actually liked having someone worry about him. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "I will be. I promise." He exchanged one last glance with her, before he and John headed for the door, leaving Brenna to finish her meal in silence, and with no small amount of trepidation.


	6. Comfort

Comfort:

That evening, Brenna, Alice and Patrick were waiting at the Yard for Alex Woodbridge to show up. Unfortunately, they ended up waiting a lot longer than any of them had expected or would have liked. Around 8:30, Brenna and Alice were sitting in Alice's office, looking anxiously at the clock. "I really don't know whether to be annoyed or worried." said Alice, finally.

"I should never have told him to come here." said Brenna, "If anything happens to him, I'll never be able to forgive myself."

"Brenna, you can't lay any of this on you." said Alice, firmly. They waited another five minutes without saying anything, before sh abruptly said, "I'm sure that he's just been delayed. Let's give him a little longer."

Brenna nodded, sighing deeply. She rubbed her face with her hands, trying to wake herself up a little. "I really do hate the part of the job where we have to sit and wait around for something to happen. This is almost worse than a stakeout."

"You sounded almost exactly like Sherlock when you said that." said Alice, "I have to say, that almost makes me worried about the direction which your relationship is going."

"At least I don't complain every step of the way when things aren't going my way." said Brenna, "Besides, Sherlock has very little reason to be bored these last few days. I ran into him and John earlier this afternoon, and I overheard one of the calls that crazy bomber guy has been making."

"It's the main item of gossip around the Yard." said Alice, "Lestrade has been pulling his hair out trying to get answers."

"And the only one who can give him the answers is Sherlock." Brenna concluded, "Considering that he isn't the most popular person around the Yard on a good day, this must not be endearing him anymore to the higher authorities."

"It's not, unfortunately. The Chief Superintendent is not happy about the state of affairs, and is only allowing it because Lestrade has assured him that Sherlock is the only one who can prevent anyone from dying."

"Ah Chief Superintendent Pitts, the bane of my existence." muttered Brenna, her face souring at the image of the fat, balding and perpetually aggravated man who could, at any moment, end her association with Alice and throw her back in prison if he so desired.

"Brenna, it's not necessary to insult him. Need I remind you that he's the one who approved your work release?"

"Need I remind you that he only did so after extensive badgering from you on the subject?"

Alice opened her mouth to continue her argument, before she shut it again and held up her hands. "You know, I'm not going to try and argue with you at this hour. Let's change the subject, shall we?"

"Okay, fine. As soon as I can think of something that is suitably bland, I'll let you know."

Again, they sat in silence for ten more minutes. Seemingly, it was an amicable, if slightly tired silence, one that they both were comfortable with. However, Brenna was effectively hiding an inner struggle between two sides of her nature. She had not forgotten what she had learned from Shane the previous night. Indeed, it had been humming in her brain all day. And after overhearing that phone call between Alice and Mycroft earlier that morning, she knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt that something was going on.

However, she could also could not forget everything that Alice had done for her over the years, and how much she had come to trust her. She wanted to give Alice a chance to come clean. However, she didn't think that Alice would do that if she asked directly. So, Brenna was about to do something that she never thought that she would have to do with Alice: she was going to have to use deception.

"So, about my dad..."

This did get Alice's attention. Her expression was surprised at the abrupt introduction of the topic, but considering how rarely Brenna had talked about her father, that really didn't tell her anything useful.

"What did you just say?"

"I think that I said something about my father. Why should that be strange? I said I would change the subject when I came up with something bland."

"And the subject of your father strikes you as being bland?" Alice asked, somewhat skeptically.

"No, maybe not." said Brenna, knowing that she would have to backtrack a little. She changed the tone of her voice, injecting a hint of vulnerability into her tone. Her expression softened, as though she found it difficult to bring up so painful a topic. "I've, uh, just been thinking of him lately, a lot."

Considering what she had been going through over the last twenty four hours, this wasn't actually far from the truth. It was so easy to use deceit when there was the smallest grain of truth to take advantage of.

The expression on Alice's face began to change ever so subtly. There were still more than a few traces of surprise, but also believed that she saw just a brief flash of worry. It lasted for only half a second, before returning to normal. "Oh, why is that?" Her tone of voice would've sounded perfectly normal to most people, but to Brenna's trained ears, she could sense that there was just the slightest hint of tension. Alice was hoping that she wouldn't give too much away.

"I don't know. I've been getting back in contact with Martha, my sister. We're actually, hopefully, going to dinner in a few days. It got me thinking that I really don't have a good idea of the circumstances that led up to dad's death. I know I haven't really asked you that much about the circumstances of how he died, but honestly it's been on my mind a lot lately. I think... I think that I might be ready to know a little more."

Alice looked at her long and hard, as if trying to peer behind Brenna's mask to see if there were any hidden agendas at work. "I could probably get my hands on the files from his accident. If you think you're ready for them, I think that it would be healthy for you to try and process his death on a deeper level."

"Thank you. I would appreciate that." said Brenna, "I know that this might sound like a crazy question, but... was there ever any sign of foul play?"

"You mean, murder? What makes you think that?"

"Well, dad was involved in a lot of sensitive cases over the years. He had to go undercover a lot. I just was wondering if maybe someone could have had a grudge against him. I mean, I don't like that idea, at all. Maybe, I'm being paranoid. I just need to be sure."

Alice inhaled sharply, and turned abruptly to look out the window of her office. Brenna observed this, knowing that Alice was taking time to compose her answer, and even when she did answer, she didn't face her. "You know that your father and I worked a few cases together, some of them of the sensitive nature that you mention. He probably made a few enemies, but I don't know of any that would hate him so much as to blow him up and make it look like an accident. If anyone would have tried to kill him, they would have done so to make a statement, perhaps even going after his family first of all."

"So, it was just an accident?"

Only now did Alice turn to look at Brenna, and her face seemed utterly earnest. "Yes, I believe that it was an accident."

Brenna could tell that she would be getting no more from Alice that night. The subject was closed. But for a first attempt, she had gotten more than she expected. Alice was clearly keeping something from her. She knew more of her father's accident that she was letting on. The revelation of this meant that she now would have to employ even more deception if she was going to get the answers that she wanted.

However, before this conversation could grow more tense, there was a knock at the door. Patrick opened the door when he got a nod from Alice. He appeared more than a little tired, and said, "It's getting on 9:00, boss. Are we going to keep on waiting for this guy, or should we call it night?"

Brenna remembered the very reason why she and Alice were even having this conversation in her office. She forced her mind back to the present case. She had many questions, and frustratingly few answers, but she still had a job to do. Right now, that needed to take precedence.

Alice seemed to realize the same thing, however unspoken. She heaved a troubled sigh and looked over at Brenna, who merely shook her head. "No, I'm afraid that we have a no-show tonight. Go home, Patrick, thanks for being willing to stay late."

As Patrick nodded and said good night to the two of them, Brenna closed her eyes and shook her head. "Something's happened to him, I know it."

"Brenna, if anything has happened to him, you can't blame yourself over it. Maybe it's just a case of cold feet."

Brenna nodded absently, hoping that Alice was right. "I know, I know. I just hate this. I want it to be over."

"So do I, Brenna. You should go home, get some rest. We're going to put a stop to this, I promise."

"I know, Alice. You always keep your promises."

She hadn't meant for that last part to sound quite so biting and sarcastic. Alice herself seemed surprised, but she let it slide, no doubt thinking that it might have been nerves from long work days and late nights. "I'll see you tomorrow. Hopefully, we'll get some sort of break then. Good night, Brenna."

Alice got to her feet and exited her office. Brenna lingered for just a moment. Her suspicions were planted about Alice, and it would be very difficult to dislodge them. She would have to be careful in the future, so that suspicion did not continue to grow into something poisonous.

* * *

Brenna was understandably exhausted on her return home from the Yard. She had spent multiple long days working this case, running between the Gallery to do her undercover work and then to the Yard sometimes twice a day in order to go over everything with Alice and the rest. Now, the first real lead which she had found seemed to have failed, and on top of that was the worry and lingering guilt that something might have happened to her because of her. It was little wonder that she could feel her stamina flagging.

However, when she finally returned home, she was somewhat surprised to Sherlock waiting for her on the front steps. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you. I trust that this isn't an inconvenient time."

"No, of course not. No time is ever inconvenient with you." Brenna stared at Sherlock for a moment. Now that she was really looking at him, she could see that there seemed to be something wrong with him, though she wouldn't have been able to say exactly what that was. "Is everything all right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped up, and Brenna was certain that she saw surprise and uncertainty flash in them. "I'm fine." He said, though his tone seemed to lack his usual breezy confidence. "I'm always fine. Why should I be otherwise?"

"I don't know, you just seem a trifle distracted. Did anything happen with that bomber today?"

Sherlock's entire body stiffened when he heard those words. He instantly looked away so that she couldn't see his eyes. "Shall we go in?" He asked, in an incredibly poor attempt to change the subject.

"Yes, of course." said Brenna, who clearly did not believe him. Something had happened, and it had been something terrible. She wouldn't be able to get Sherlock to open up to her just yet, though. She would have to wait for him to do that. The very fact that he was here at all was enough for her to know that tonight, Sherlock needed her help.

The two came into the flat. There was immediately the sound of skittering claws on the hard wood floors, and Lily appeared, tail wagging and tongue hanging out of her mouth in the typical beagle grin. She was obviously quite happy to see Sherlock and Brenna. "Hello, Lily, you must be hungry. I'll get you something. Keep Sherlock company for me, will you?"

Sherlock made no reply. That worried Brenna even more. Ordinarily, when she made some sort of dig about Sherlock actually liking Lily, he had something sarcastic to say in response. At the very least, he would have given her an annoyed glare. Instead, he breezed past her into the living room without another word.

He sat down on the couch and Lily jumped up beside him, settling her head on his lap. He made no move to push her away. Brenna took note of this, but didn't bother to bring it up. She picked up the remote and turned the news on, if only because she wanted some noise in the background. She went into the kitchen to get Lily her dinner.

"How's that case of yours coming?" Sherlock asked, sounding almost desperate to make some sort of conversation.

"Not great." Said Brenna, "In fact, I would forgo my usual eloquence and say that right now, it sucks."

"That bad?" said Sherlock.

"Yes, I tried to get a witness to come in this evening, but he never showed up. I'm just hoping that nothing has happened to him." Brenna had prepared Lily's food by this point, and she set the bowl down on the floor. Lily jumped down from the couch and patted over to the food bowl. Brenna turned her attention to the television, only to see the news story of the gas leak explosion in Glasgow, which had taken out twelve flats, and killed almost as many people. "And then this happened. I heard it on the way home. Horrible accident. There may be dozens more trapped inside that they won't be able to get to until daybreak. It has not been a good day for law enforcement, I'll say that much."

It was only then that she noticed Sherlock. His gaze was fixed on the television screen, a look of sick horror on his face. His breathing was coming harsh and shallow, and the rigidity in his body seemed to have increased. "Sherlock, are you all right?"

"Turn it off." Said Sherlock, his voice barely above a whisper, but with an intensity of feeling that Brenna had heard only a few times in the course of their relationship.

"Sherlock, what-"

"Turn it off!" snapped Sherlock, the volume in his voice having risen to one of sharp panic. It was harder than he had meant it to be, but it was obvious that he wasn't thinking as logically as he normally did.

Brenna quickly tuned off the television, and turned to look at Sherlock. He was still breathing irregularly, his eyes tight shut, and his hands pressed on either of his head, as though he were desperately trying to gain control of emotions that were spiraling out of control. Brenna began to piece together what she was seeing. She had been there when Sherlock had gotten a call from his latest bomber case. The bomber had given him twelve hours to solve it. Now, she was beginning to understand just why Sherlock had come here. Because he needed comfort, because he had failed.

She sat down beside him on the couch. She put her hands on either side of his face, gently moving aside Sherlock's hands, so that she was looking into his face. "Sherlock, talk to me. Please, tell me what happened."

For a few minutes, Sherlock could not say anything. When he did speak, there was no hint of his normal confidence and poise. There was raw emotion in his words, his tone broken and halting. "Brenna, I… I failed. I wasn't able to save her in time."

Sherlock Holmes wasn't crying. He never cried. But, the weight of having failed to save so many people was clearly affecting him in a way that he wasn't used to.

"I solved the case, but when I heard her voice again, she started to describe the man who had been speaking to her. I tried to get her to stop. I couldn't know anything about him, but she wouldn't listen to me. I heard the gun shot, and the line... it just went dead." He shook his head, raking his hands through his hair, as if trying to drive the memory and the emotion from his mind.

But, he clearly wasn't succeeding. Brenna reached out and took both of his hands in her own, and said soothingly, "Sherlock, you tried. It wasn't your fault that this psycho, whoever he may be, decided to take matters into his hands."

"I know it's not my fault." said Sherlock, "But, Brenna, failure, its consequences… I don't know how I'm supposed to process it. What am I supposed to do?"

His expression was so lost and desperate, Brenna felt her heart breaking. She put her arms around him and pulled her closer to him. Sherlock stiffened slightly, but than slowly allowed himself to melt into her arms, burying her face into her shoulder, taking comfort from her warmth and presence.

Many people who had seen Sherlock working a case could be horrified at how callously he seemed to regard the most gruesome of crimes. From kidnapping to murder, he reveled in the complexities of a case, of solving the puzzle. It was just a vehicle to stimulate his mind; the people involved were simply transport. Sherlock admitted as much himself. Because of this, many people believed that Sherlock didn't care at all about the people involved.

In a sense, they were right. Sherlock Holmes didn't care, at least not in the way that most would consider caring. The simple fact of the matter was that Sherlock didn't care or worry, because he didn't need to. Why should he? Caring and other emotional entanglements could blind judgment and dull the senses, perverting the course of justice from being done. For Sherlock, it made complete sense. Nine times out of ten he was able to solve the case to everyone's satisfaction, which included saving the people involved; why should he waste time and brain power by worrying?

However, Sherlock did care enough to do everything in his power to solve the case. He had his own moral code, which not many other people would have been aware of. He never went against it. He did know that peoples' lives were on the line, and his success meant their lives would be saved. But Sherlock was still human. He could still make mistakes. And when he failed, the consequences could be dire. He had never known how to deal with the emotional consequences that came when he failed. He had once used drugs to help numb his senses to it. Now, he was better able to face them, but it was still difficult for him.

That was why he could only turn to Brenna during these times. She was the only who he could trust to show his vulnerability to. It made her love him all the more, because of that trust. And she always tried to bring what comfort she could.

"I'll tell you what you do, Sherlock." She said, after a few minutes, and she felt his breathing begin to grow more regular and calm. "You keep on going. You'll get up in the morning and try to put this behind you. From what you've told me, this isn't over. You can't give up. Someone else is going to need you soon."

Sherlock raised his eyes to look at her. It didn't seem at first that she had gotten through to him, for there was still a little uncertainty in his eyes. He clearly didn't want the same thing to happen again, if only for the sake of his own sanity. His opponent had also upped the consequences of the game they were playing. Sherlock knew just how far he was willing to go.

However, it was enough for Sherlock to see the confidence that Brenna had in him. She believed in him, despite everything that he was. Sherlock knew that he was far from the ideal boyfriend that so many people dreamed of. Normally, he didn't let such things bother him. But on the rare occasions when he started to question himself, Brenna was always there for him to help him. For some reason, that had made all of the difference to him. For all that he said he never needed anyone, he knew that wasn't true. He did need someone, he had always needed someone, and that person had turned out to be Brenna.

Sometimes, words were not needed between these two. Their deepest emotions could be understood by a single glance. So, when Brenna saw that Sherlock was slowly becoming steadier, she knew that he was going to be all right.

"It's going to be all right, Sherlock." She said, gently.

"I know." said Sherlock, with a bit more belief than he had been feeling.

He then did something which was rather unexpected. He reached out and embraced her, pulling her into his chest in an almost desperate need to feel her body enmeshed with his own. "I love you. Brenna, you know that, don't you?" His voice was thick with emotion of a different sort from the uncertainty that had plagued him only moments before. This was altogether different. This was the intensity of emotions that Sherlock rarely allowed himself to show, and only with her. "I know I don't say it or show it as much as other people do, but I would never want you to think that I… that my feelings for you were ever insincere."

Brenna found herself smiling softly; she pushed away from Sherlock slightly and looked into his eyes. "Sherlock, you don't have to say it to me. I know it's there. I see it every time you look at me. Of course, that doesn't mean that I don't enjoy hearing you say it."

She leaned forward and kissed him. One of his hands went up to a weave itself in her hair, while the other moved to pull her closer. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty, simply acceptance. These were the moments that made up for whatever shortcomings Sherlock may have had. It was these moments that made her remember why she loved him so much.

They stayed holding each other on the sofa for an indeterminate amount of time. They had lost track of time, because time didn't really matter. They had each other. That was enough for them both.

There is nothing quite so challenging about Sherlock fan fiction, as writing him with emotion. At the same time it is also one of the most rewarding aspects of it. Please review and tell me what you think.

Next chapter: We return again into the past, with Brenna saying a final good bye to her father. However, in the face of her family's rejection and her own arrest, there is still one person who is willing to look beyond her crimes. Elizabeth, her sister, will be the only one who is willing to forgive and welcome Brenna home.


	7. Relieving Sexual Tension

Relieving Sexual Tension:

Sherlock spent the night at Brenna's after this. By spending the night, of course, that truly means that he spent the entire night on the couch, while Brenna ended up falling asleep at his side. Sherlock still felt himself on call because of this mysterious bomber; he didn't want to waste any time by sleeping. However, he also felt an overwhelming desire to not be alone. It was a weakness of sentiment that he loathed admitting in himself, but it was also one which he couldn't deny. Brenna helped to soothe him, and leaving her presence in those dark hours was something he wasn't able to entertain.

Brenna was more than willing to offer him this comfort. However, she didn't possess Sherlock single-minded stamina when he was on a case, and so she was unable to stay up as he did. Of course, falling asleep on a couch is not the most comfortable of experiences. When she woke up the following morning, it was to find that she had several aches in parts of her body which she would prefer not to think about.

Strangely, though, she was also covered with a blanket, her head was cushioned by a few pillows, so at least a neck ache would be the least of her troubles that day. She had no idea how either the blanket or the pillows had gotten there, as she had no clear memory of arranging either article before falling asleep.

"Oh, good, you're awake." came the sound of Sherlock's voice from the kitchen, and he began to detect the strong smell of coffee brewing. She sat up, the blanket still haphazardly wrapped around her and looked over into the adjoining kitchen. Sherlock was there, pouring two cups of steaming coffee. "I was about to forcibly wake you. I believe that you're due to report into work in an hour, and I didn't think you would want to be late."

"Um, thanks." said Brenna, as she got to her feet, and went over into the kitchen. She gratefully accepted the coffee from Sherlock. However, just before she took a sip, she looked at the liquid dubiously. "This is actually coffee right? There are no weird ingredients in here that will make me turn purple?"

"Brenna, I am perfectly capable of making a simple cup coffee." said Sherlock, in apparent exasperation.

"You might be capable of it, but I sometimes highly doubt that you do it normally." She took a sip of the coffee, and it seemed to taste all right. "Nevertheless, thank you. I know that making coffee for your girlfriend first thing in the morning can hardly be your idea of stimulating activity."

"It's not really, but I assumed that you would want a little stimulant of your own after last night."

Brenna couldn't help but bark a laugh. "You make it sound as though last night were something epic."

"Epic?" repeated Sherlock, in a slightly puzzled manner. A moment later though, it seemed to dawn on him. "Oh, I see, you're referring to epic in the sexual escapade sense, I suppose."

"Yes, that's what I was aiming for. Don't get me wrong, I was glad you came here last night instead of somewhere else, but falling asleep on the couch after a session of soul searching isn't what happens when most peoples' boyfriends drop by." Sherlock started to say something, but Brenna held up a hand, forestalling him. "And please, don't say that you're not my boyfriend. You know what I was trying to say. By the way, thanks for the pillow and blanket. It was sweet of you."

"Nothing 'sweet' about it," said Sherlock, imperiously. "It's particularly chilly around this time of the year, and you like to keep your thermostat low for some ungodly reason. You could have become sick, and you can't very well risk that in the middle of a big case. And the pillows were merely a precaution in order to prevent the danger of over-extending your neck muscles."

"Right, of course. Absolutely nothing sweet about it." said Brenna, rolling her eyes slightly. "Look, whatever it was for, thanks. And all you need to say is you're welcome."

"You're welcome." said Sherlock, with some difficulty as the words were probably about as foreign to him as please. "And thank you, for last night. It was... helpful."

Brenna gave him a small smile and covered his hand with her own. "You're welcome to come here anytime, Sherlock, for anything. Do you feel better this morning?"

Sherlock shrugged, as though uncertain how exactly to answer her. "I am good enough, which is better than I was yesterday. In fact, I should probably get back to Baker St. I think John might be starting to worry about me, and I need to be ready in case I get anymore calls."

"Yes, of course." said Brenna, who couldn't keep the worry from her tone. She was sill concerned at just how far this bomber was wiling to go, and how this insane plan involved Sherlock. Who knew what this psycho's final endgame truly was? "You're going to get tired of me saying it, but please, keep being careful."

"I will, Brenna, I promise." Sherlock placed a quick kiss on her forehead, and gave her hand an extra squeeze. He than moved past her, and headed out. Brenna heard the door opening and closing, before she heaved a sigh and rubbed her face. Whatever this was, wherever it was going, she just hoped that it was all over soon. She wasn't sure how much more of it she could take.

* * *

Despite the somewhat odd start to the day, Brenna actually made it to the museum with some time to spare. She was relieved to find that Wenceslas was not there to greet her as before, as she didn't think that she could stand facing the Iron Bitch first thing in the morning, especially considering how terribly crappy her night had been.

However, when she got to her office, which was right next to that of Wenceslas, she was completely stunned when the Director of the Hickman hadn't even arrived yet. There was no explanation which she could find, and when she tried to call her, she only got her voicemail. Wenceslas didn't turn up to the gallery until an hour had passed. Brenna might have liked to have given the Director a similar tongue-lashing to the one she had endured the other day when she had been only _five_ minutes late. However, she buried her first instinct, and didn't even comment on it.

"Good morning, Miss Wenceslas." said Brenna, in her bright, slightly empty-headed persona of absolute loyalty to Ramona Wenceslas, "I'm so glad to see you. I was starting to get worried."

Ramona Wenceslas, at first glance, seemed to be her regular frostily authoritarian self. However, Brenna was able to see that there was something very subtle that was off about her. She saw a slight quivering in her eyes, as her gaze seemed to dart all around the office for a moment, before finally settling on Brenna. "You were worried? Why? Have you received any strange calls while I was out?"

Her tone was seemingly still confidant and domineering, but there seemed to be an almost desperation for reassurance. Brenna molded her expression into curious puzzlement, with just a touch of fear. As Regina King, she was almost frightened that she had said something to upset Wenceslas, or that the museum Director might be suddenly ill. "No, ma'am. There was nothing of note while I've been in. But, of course, I was worried. This entire museum runs on your presence. Without you here, the entire place might as well be empty."

Wenceslas seemed to relax only slightly when she heard this earnest expression of support. She seemed to be almost grateful for it, as her expression and tone softened just enough for a slight smile to appear on her face. "Thank you, Miss King. Forgive my attitude, I had a rather bad morning. All the activity surrounding this opening has been very draining. I'm afraid that it might be starting to catch up with me."

Brenna inwardly smiled with satisfaction. It seemed as though something was making Ramona Wenceslas very nervous. This was progress. Nervous people made mistakes. They didn't always know what they were saying. And they always seemed very willing to talk to people they thought would be sympathetic to them. This just might be her ideal opportunity to make Wenceslas believe that Regina King was exactly the type of person she could absolutely trust.

"I understand that, ma'am. But you don't need to worry, and you shouldn't concern yourself. I've gone over all of the plans for the opening at least twice. There is nothing that can go wrong, I promise you. That's why you hired me, Miss Wenceslas, to make sure that you wouldn't have to worry about such little details."

For a moment, Wenceslas turned to look at Brenna. "Perhaps, that is turning out to be the best decision that I have made regarding this opening."

Brenna's face blossomed into a grateful smile, as though it were the highest compliment that anyone had ever given her. "Oh, by the way, I heard from security this morning when I came in. The strangest thing happened. Alex Woodridge didn't show up for his shift last night."

At the name 'Alex Woodbridge', Ramona's face grew suddenly a shade paler, and she looked over at Brenna with a renewal of her previous nervousness. "What?"

"Alex Woodbridge, one of the night-guards. You probably don't know him, as he came in on the graveyard shift. But according to his supervisor, he never showed up. Odd as he's usually very regular. Anyway, it's nothing that you need to worry about, but we did put report it just to be on the safe side."

"Oh, yes, of course. Thank you for telling me." said Wenceslas, rather faintly.

Brenna took careful note of this. It was obvious that Wenceslas perhaps knew of Alex Woodbridge more than a snooty Director such as herself should have. It was something that might be worth looking into.

Brenna's phone suddenly rang. Almost immediately, Ramona's expression seemed to shift back into her usual coldly condescending stare. Brenna knew very well why, as Wenceslas had made it very clear that there were to be no personal calls when she was on the clock. Brenna, blushing with embarrassment as she fished out her phone, stammered out, "This is nothing, ma'am, really. It's one of the caterers for the gala. There was an issue with the desserts the last time we spoke, but this should be them right now."

"Oh, yes, of course." said Wenceslas, "Well, you had better take it. But be quick."

Brenna quickly scuttled out of the office, and answered the still ringing phone. "Alice, you picked a really bad time to call. The Iron Bitch is softening towards me, but she's still looking over my shoulder."

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Brenna, but I thought you would want to know sooner rather than later. We found Alex Woodbridge. I'm afraid he's dead."

Brenna stopped, her heart sinking. "Oh, god." She said, with horror, "That's why he never showed up last night, or this morning. He was right about being followed. This is all my fault. I should have-"

"Brenna," said Alice, firmly, "You can't blame yourself for this. If Woodbridge was being followed, then the chances are good that whoever killed him was simply waiting for the right opportunity."

"Maybe, but I still told him that he would be protected. Now, he's dead." She looked over a the glass wall which separated her office from that of Wenceslas. The museum director was calmly going over her work, completely unaware of the fact that Brenna wanted nothing more than to march back into that room and punch her in the face. "Please tell me that you found something new, preferably something that directly implicates Wenceslas?"

"I'm afraid that nothing was found like that. However, we did find out some useful information. Alex's murder was no random accident. It was a hit from someone named the Golem. Apparently, he's of the most dangerous assassins in the world."

Brenna didn't like the sound of that. "So, whoever is behind this must have money. They have a stake in wanting to make sure that the painting continues to be thought of as real."

"And considering that painting is worth a cool thirty million, I'm sure that he or she was willing to pay quite a lot to keep him quiet."

Brenna felt like hitting something in frustration. However, any such shows might very well draw the attention of Wenceslas, and that was something she couldn't risk. "I wish that I had something to give you on my end. But, I can't get Wenceslas to crack. The only thing that I've got so far is she seemed to get a little nervous when I mentioned that Alex didn't come in last night. And as much I would like to try and snoop through her office, she's been holed up there nearly all the time I've been here."

"In that case, maybe another set of eyes would help."

"Another set of eyes? Alice, you can't anyone else up here. Wenceslas is already watching me closely as it is, and I'm certain that she doesn't even suspect me."

"I was talking about Sherlock actually."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Apparently, Alex Woodbridge is the next victim of this human bombing crisis that's kept Lestrade so stressed. Sherlock was at the crime scene, and he was the one who told Lestrade about the Golem."

"Let me guess, he managed to come to the same conclusion about the fake Vermeer painting in five minutes?" said Brenna.

"More like three and a half. The other minute and a half he was able to figure out that Woodbridge played a major part in this case which you've been working, and he decided that you needed his services."

"Of course, he did. And all without asking me if I needed his help."

"Well, you did just said yourself that you weren't getting anywhere."

"You do realize that you're not supposed to be on his side?"

"I only tell it like it is, Brenna. As for Sherlock, I wouldn't be surprised if you saw him before the day was out."

Brenna's phone suddenly chirped and she looked at the text message and smirked. "Sooner than you think. I'll get back to you." She hung up and scanned the text message.

 **Five minutes from Hickman Gallery. Need to speak with you. SH**

Brenna's smirk widened, as she texted back. **Meet me at the back door. I'll get you in. BR**

* * *

True to his word, Sherlock was already by the service entrance of the Hickman by the time Brenna got there. Brenna greeted him with a smile. "Sherlock, what a lovely surprise. I certainly wasn't expecting to see you here at this hour of the morning. Sine when did you take an interested in modern art?"

"I'm here for the case, Brenna." said Sherlock, as he pushed past Brenna, and started making his way down the concrete hallway.

"Aw, you didn't actually miss me?"

Sherlock stopped and beamed her a glare. "We just saw each other this morning. Must you assume that I am that codependent?"

"It's not hard to assume. Don't worry, Bennett already called me. I know that you're really here to do a little snooping."

"Observing." Sherlock corrected. "And while we're on the subject, I understand that you're dead security guard might have looked a little deeply into information that he really had no business knowing?"

Brenna winced visibly at the clinical way in which Sherlock made this statement. For the most part, she was used to the way that Sherlock approached his cases; that didn't mean that she always liked it to. "Thank you for reminding of the role I indirectly played in bringing about his death, Sherlock."

"Oh, Brenna, it was hardly your fault. If anything, it's his fault. He didn't need to go start asking questions regarding the veracity of the painting, and yet he did."

"Yes, and he turned to me to help him find the answer to those questions. Excuse me if I'm feeling a little guilty about it. You know how I feel about involving dead bodies with artistic ventures, Sherlock. I find it distasteful."

Sherlock shook his head and allowed it to pass, as it was clear to him that this would yet again be one of the many subjects upon which he and Brenna didn't see eye to eye.

After a few minutes, Brenna quietly asked, "Sherlock, this whole situation, Alex Woodbridge being murdered, the Golem, the Vermeer, is it-"

"Yes, it's the next test." said Sherlock, in a tight voice. "I haven't heard anything, so I don't know how long I have this time."

"What do you think he wants?"

"I don't know. I don't know why he's doing any of this. But this time, I will stop him."

Brenna looked at Sherlock, and for just a split second, she saw the flash of determination and resolve in his eyes. He clearly didn't want a repeat of last night's failure. His mind was set and focused. This time, he intended to win.

"I know you will." She said. By this time, she had led him through the basement hallways of the museum, and they had arrived at their destination. "But for right now, we need to get you some sort of suitable disguise in order to make sure you can do your covert snooping."

"Observing." Sherlock reminded her again, with some exasperation.

"Right, right, whatever." muttered Brenna, as she opened a few of the closets in the locker room, where the extra uniforms for the museum security were stored. "I happen to have the perfect cover for you. The security guards have access to all areas of the building. They're one of the few who work here who can get into the Vermeer room without arousing attention."

"How can you be sure of that?"

Brenna turned around to look at him, a uniform in one hand, which she handed off to Sherlock. "Because only one of them is dead. Unfortunate as that is, it affords us an opening. I had to put out a request for someone to take Woodbridge's place for this morning. You just got the job."

Sherlock looked at the uniform with acute distaste. "You don't have anything else for me to wear?"

"Why should you care? You're almost as good as disguising yourself as I am. Surely you can bear wearing that uniform for a few hours."

Sherlock grumbled something that was unintelligible. He obviously wasn't all that thrilled about having to wear the standard issue uniform of the Hickman Gallery Security officers. "Stop your grousing and start stripping, Sherlock." said Brenna, as she sorted through the jackets and hats in the closet, before finding ones that might actually fit, before turning around and throwing them to Sherlock. "Unfortunately, as much as I would like to stay for the show that would be, I need to run back upstairs and find you a badge that will actually get you into the Vermeer room."

When she came back into the room, Sherlock had unwillingly changed into the uniform, though he was still muttering under his breath about the ill-fitting garments that he was being forced to wear for the good of the case. "You should be lucky that I could even find something that would fit you from the spare uniforms. Most of our security guards aren't as tall, dark, and handsome as you."

"But that doesn't mean that they can't at least try and make a shirt which is half way comfortable. Honestly, this feels like-" He stopped suddenly and looked at Brenna, "Did you say tall, dark, and handsome."

"Yes, I did. I never told you this, but when we first met, I might have been more attracted to you by your looks rather than your mind."

"You hated me when we first met if I recall."

"Of course I did," said Brenna, with a smirk, "But if I hadn't been busy hating you, I might have been willing to give you a try based strictly on your looks alone."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Are you attempting to flirt with me, Miss Ryan?"

"I might be, Mr. Holmes. Is it working, or are you offended that I find you so irresistibly attractive? For a man like you who values the mind above all else, I'm sure that being told of your physical perfections must be hard for you."

Honestly, there might have been a time when Sherlock would have been offended by such an insinuation, or at the very least, found it totally irrelevant. Of course, he was not unaware of the fact that the opposite sex seemed to be attracted to him for some reason. He had run into more than a few women who had attempted to plaster themselves all over him, a few even attempting to offer his sexual favors in addition to any payment he wanted. He really had no idea why women found him so attractive, and he had found those instances to be extremely annoying. His mind was what he prided himself on; his physical state was of secondary concern, despite what John might have said when he constantly nagged Sherlock about eating and sleeping on a regular basis.

However, when Brenna attempted the same kind of flirting with him, he didn't really mind. In fact, he rather liked it. It was truly fascinating to him that one woman, seemingly no different than any other of the face of the planet in looks or personality should arouse such a reaction in him. He had always lived for a challenge, and flirting with Brenna presented a challenge to him unlike anything which he had ever encountered.

She was trying to get under his skin. That devilish gleam, the mischievous smirk playing at the corners of her mouth, the way the tone of her voice has taken on a more sultry tone. Whether it was conscious on her part, all of these were meant to make him react in a specific way, both physically and emotionally, and it was working.

His heart rate was already starting to increase, and his skin was growing hotter. A baser part of his nature was starting to wonder if he could take a few moments to indulge in this game a little further. However, the logical part of his brain which was highly evolved (or he liked to tell himself), told him that he was on a potentially very tight schedule, and he couldn't afford to let himself be distracted.

Turning away from Brenna's enticing expression, he grabbed the tie which was the only article of clothing which he had yet to put on. Brenna watched him turning it over and over in his hands, as though it were some sort of complex puzzle. His eyes were set in an expression of such intense concentration that she burst out laughing.

Sherlock looked at her, almost hurt. "What?"

"You don't know how to wear one of those things do you?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Brenna, still smiling, took the tie from Sherlock's hand. Sherlock made a gagging noise when she started buttoning the last few buttons of his shirt. "Are you deliberately trying to strangle me?"

"Oh, man up, Sherlock." said Brenna, as she put the tie around Sherlock's neck, and began to tie it. "I must say, I'm glad you don't wear ties. If you did, they would cover up one of your best assets."

Sherlock looked at her, his expression both slightly mystified and intrigued. "One of my what?"

"Your neck, Sherlock, that was the asset which I was referring to. You can't say that you've never been complemented on it." She finished tying the tie, but now her fingers were tracing the skin on Sherlock's neck. With a start, Sherlock realized that in trying to overcome temptation, he had inadvertently placed himself directly in it's path. He was cornered, and even more distressing, he was swiftly beginning not to care.

"If anyone ever has, I can't say that I would recall it." The measured tones of his voice were beginning to sound a little ragged, as his breath began to come to him even more quickly. He also took note of the face that his voice had dropped at least an octave.

"Well, good. I'm glad you heard it from me first, and actually remembered it."

"Stop looking at me like that." said Sherlock, who was swiftly starting to forget why exactly he hadn't taken this forward already, and was making one final attempt to remain in control.

"Like what?"

"That's the same look that you have when you're about to consume what you consider to be a particularly delectable dessert."

"Well, maybe I just find you particularly delectable. Do you have some objection to that?"

"No but I'm trying to work, and you're distracting me."

"Oh, I'm sorry." Said Brenna, who didn't sound sorry at all. In fact, she took a step closer to him, closing the distance between them even more. Her breasts were now pressed firmly into his chest, and the suggestive smile on her face had only widened. "Is there any way that I could make it up to you?"

Sherlock regarded her with a raised eyebrow. "Do you really want our first time to be in the back locker room of a museum?"

"I've heard of worse places. Still, hearing you say that is almost reassuring in a way."

"Why?"

"You have thought about it."

"Oh, for God's sake." muttered Sherlock. Logic was no effectively silenced. If there was one thing which Sherlock hated, it was being bested, repeatedly. Brenna had gotten the better of him every time during these particular games. Perhaps it was time he took the initiative.

Brenna had always known that Sherlock was fast. But when it came to matter of intimacy, he tended to be a little hesitant. While she had been more than willing to move their relationship forward for a few months now, Sherlock seemed far more reluctant to do so. He didn't really like being touched, in addition to the fact that showing affection of any kind was still something that was fairly new to him. It had often fallen to her to initiate such moments. Honestly, she hadn't been expecting Sherlock to take a more aggressive stance than he did.

However, if there was anything which dating Sherlock for the better part of the year should have taught her, it was that he rarely acted in the way which one would have expected. When he suddenly grabbed her around the waist, and pushed her against the lockers, she only had time to give a startled cry of surprise before Sherlock's lips urgently claimed her own.

It had been a long time since Brenna had experienced activities of an intimate nature. This was by her own choice. Frankly, all of the men who she had been with in her four years of being on the run had consisted of men she was was either manipulating or those that, like her, had been caught in the heady rush of heists, of which sex seemed to be a natural by-product. At the time, such encounters had been fun, all part of the particularly dangerous game which she had chosen to play. Now, looking back on it, she couldn't help but believe that all those men had only been fuel for an addiction which had already been slowly destroying her.

Sherlock was different. His mind was truly one of a kind, and the idea that she could be the sole object of every one of those minute and detailed deductions which he so excelled at, was more arousing and exciting than any one of those one-night stands would ever be able to top. This, she felt, was merely a taste of what was to come, and she was going to enjoy every moment of it. She melted into his embrace, losing herself in the feel of his arms and his scent. Her mind became an increasingly happy haze of desire and lust.

Sherlock was surprised to find how much he was enjoying himself. He tightened his hold on her waist, drawing her warm body closer to his. His tongue made a move to maneuver into her mouth, encountering very little resistance when he finally managed to curl his tongue around hers. It elicited a moan from deep within her throat. The reaction it caused was entirely instinctual on his part, as the blood rushing through his body was not going to his larger brain.

This was an activity was Sherlock and Brenna would have been perfectly happy to continue for the rest of the afternoon. Unfortunately, breathing was not transport. Though loath to break contact, Sherlock eventually forced himself to break contact, but not before delivering a final nip to her lower lip.

For several minutes, the two of the remained in an embrace, their foreheads pressed together and breathing heavily. Sherlock noted that Brenna's lips were slightly swollen and her eyes were dilated.

"Well," he said, at last, "That was certainly interesting."

"Interesting." Brenna gasped, "You practically assault me in a locker room, and all you can say is that it was interesting?"

"Well, do you have another word that would adequately describe it?" Brenna blushed heavily. Sherlock smiled. "Ah, I see. I seem to have finally managed to strike you speechless with my romantic overtures. I knew it would happen sooner or later. I must thank you for your help in a most helpful experiment."

"An experiment? And just what were you trying to prove?"

"How to alleviate sexual tension between two people who work together. We do work together frequently, and as our relationship progresses, it will probably have an even more overt effect on our work efforts. Conducting experiments such as these can help to make sure that we can balance our physical attraction and our work."

"Oh, of course. Why didn't I think of that? That actually is very mature of you, Sherlock. I'm also glad to hear that this isn't going to be a one-off.

"Of course not, it's poor practice to repeat the parameters of an experiment only once. Now that the tension between us has been relieved, we can get back to our case. I imagine you have some observation to do in Wenceslas' office while I'm distracting her."

"In that case, shall we?" said Brenna, as she untangled herself from Sherlock (although it seemed with a little bit of reluctance on her part). "Just one question, Sherlock, are we only going to relieve sexual tension while on the job?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Well, I suppose we could do some research in our off-time. We could enact different situations. It might be time saving."

Brenna grinned. "Role playing, Sherlock? I never knew you were into that aspect."

Sherlock's smug look faded, and he was mystified once more. "What are you talking about?"

Brenna laughed suddenly. She got the feeling that she was really going to be enjoying this. "Later, Sherlock. I'll be more than happy to show you."

* * *

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	8. Observational Snooping

Observational Snooping:

During her career as a thief and con artist, Brenna had often had to poke into places where she technically wasn't supposed to be. This didn't just include the various safes and vaults which she had broken into. It also meant uncovering the secrets that people would much prefer to be hidden. She had never been entirely fond of the practice of blackmail, but there were other ways to exploit secrets that could be equally profitable.

She had never enjoyed finding out the dirty secrets of someone more than Ramona Wenceslas. Unfortunately, even with Sherlock's distraction, she knew that the time she would have to snoop through her private e-mails would not be long. She would just have to be fast.

She was fairly certain at this point that the Ramona had not been involved with Alex Woodbridge's murder. Indeed, she was fairly certain that the Director was unaware that it had happened. However, the manner of her reaction when she had mentioned that he had gone missing made Brenna believe that Ramona knew more of Woodbridge than she should have, and perhaps those suspicions had made her just nervous enough to say the wrong thing. She only hoped that the computer in Ramona's office would give her the clues which she needed.

All these thoughts were going through her mind when she returned to her desk from the locker rooms. She almost ran into Ramona as she was coming out of her office. "Oh, excuse me, Miss Wenceslas." she said, immediately putting on a show of fawning horror, as though running into the Director of the Hickman was perhaps akin to running over a small puppy with a car. "I didn't see you, I'm afraid. Is everything all right? You look somewhat pale."

Ramona did indeed look somewhat pale, and she appeared to be nervous. "It's nothing, Regina." She said, and Brenna mentally counted it as a victory that Ramona had called her by her first name without hesitation. It was one more step to getting Ramona to trust her completely. "Someone is inside the room with the Vermeer in it, someone who shouldn't be in there."

"I'm sure it's just one of the security guards. Why should that raise any alarm? It's not as though they are going to do anything to harm the painting."

Brenna's casual words seemed to cause Ramona to turn even more pale, as though she thought security guards were the greatest danger to the Vermeer, considering what had happened with Alex Woodbridge. However, she tried to put on a mask of her usual cold calm and control. "It might be nothing, but I still need to look into it. Hold all of my calls. I will be back once I have dealt with this."

"Right, of course, ma'am." said Brenna, as Ramona hurried away.

No sooner was she gone, than Brenna went to Ramona's office. The computer was pass word protected, of course. And, of course, Brenna was prepared. She had learned everything she possibly could about Ramona in preparation for this undercover assignment, and finding a password from that information was no hard difficulty.

Accessing Ramona's e-mails, she started scanning them for any mention of the Vermeer. It didn't take her long to find out what she was looking for. They were a series of e-mails between Ramona, and what appeared to be an unnamed, and what was most likely, an untraceable e-mail account. They had been exchanging e-mails for several months, from the beginning when Ramona had found the Vermeer, all the way up to just a few days before.

It was apparent from the start that Ramona had been the one who had found Hector in Argentina. Through what was evidently a long, twisting process of several parties all leading her to this one mastery person, she had eventually been given the means and the people to prove to the public that the painting was real, on the surface at least. However, as Brenna read more of the e-mails, she realized that the painting itself was only part of the show.

Ramona had never meant to sell the painting. She had never even meant to show it. The night before the Vermeer had been to go on show to the public, whoever Ramona was communicating with had hired a group of thieves to steal the painting from the walls of the Hickman Gallery. That was why the security had been shut off for the past few nights. Ramona had wanted to see how long it would take for the police to be notified, so that the thieves would have their window of opportunity in which to plan.

With the painting gone, Ramona would have gotten the insurance money of thirty million pounds, and the lost Vermeer would have slipped back into the shadows of history, never to be heard from again. It was actually a brilliant plan, and Brenna almost would have applauded the con. There would always have been skeptics who questioned the painting's authenticity, and perhaps someone might have been successful in exposing the fraud. However, with the painting stolen, Ramona Wenceslas would never have had to worry about proving its authenticity.

However, it seemed that Alex Woodbridge had been the unforeseen problem. The most recent e-mails had him mentioned by name several times. Ramona had thought that he had begun to suspect something when he had been hanging around the painting and asking questions about it's origins. The mysterious person who had arranged this whole thing had merely said that Woodbridge would be taken care of. He had warned Ramona to stay quiet, or she would find herself missing out on her share of the thirty million.

Brenna had found what she was looking for. She may not have known how the painting was a fake, and she probably couldn't tie Ramona directly to murder, but she could get her on something just as substantive: fraud and attempted robbery.

Her concentration was interrupted by a beep from her phone. **Wenceslas and I are done. I would recommend that you finish whatever you have started in her office. SH**

She hurriedly left the office exactly as she had found it, including leaving the computer on the same screen where she had left it. She had been quite ready to pretend to be very busy at her own desk, but she was prevented even from that when she got a text from Ramona herself. She had been used to the imperious texts from the Iron Bitch as much as in person, but this one was different.

 **I need you to meet me in the Vermeer gallery.**

Brenna had to try to keep a huge from splitting her face. Her day had just gotten better. Perhaps she would finally get a real good look at this supposed Vermeer, and she could finally prove it to be a fake.

She entered the gallery, a long, white space with a singular painting hanging starkly in the middle of one wall. The setting seemed oddly out of place with the style of the painting itself, yet for a moment, Brenna had to stop and star in slight awe at the sight of the painting before her. It portrayed a view of the Thames at night, a symphony of rich, dark blues and shades of golden light reflected in the water. Above, tiny golden pin pricks of light illuminated the velvet of a night sky just after sunset.

It was perfectly in the style of Vermeer; all of the distinctive marks were there in exactly the places where they were supposed to be. For a moment, even Brenna herself wondered if her own suspicions were unfounded. What if this painting was an actual Vermeer?

Nonetheless, she managed to hide her awe and amazement, and focus her attention on Ramona. "You wanted to see me, ma'am?" She said. She made no mention of the fact that Ramona suddenly wanted her to see the Vermeer when before she wouldn't have allowed her anywhere near the it. A good underling in the art world never asked such silly questions.

Ramona was standing in front of the painting. The troubled look that she had observed earlier in the morning had returned, only now it seemed to have intensified. "Did you find out what that guard was doing here?" Brenna prodded.

"I don't know. I really wasn't able to find out. I think he was some sort of investigator. He insinuated that he knew the painting was a fake."

"Well, that's ridiculous. You told me yourself that the painting's been proven as genuine. Looking at it now, I can clearly see that this is the work of a master."

"yes, yes, of course." said Ramona, with just the slightest hint of hesitation. Her entire body was tense and rigid. "I almost wish that this painting had stayed where I found it. I sometimes wish that I had never laid eyes on it. It has proven to be so much trouble, almost more than it's worth."

"Ramona, how can you even think that?" said Brenna, testing the waters a little by calling Wenceslas by her first name, a feat that she had not yet been able to do. The fact that Ramona did not immediately react and correct her was yet another indication in Brenna's mind that she just might have gotten through. "When this Vermeer is on display, everyone will know just how talented and perceptive you are. I don't know of anyone else who could have brought this Vermeer into the light so quickly. Why, I'm sure that no one else would have worked so long to find a masterpiece that everyone said was lost forever. People in the art world will call you a hero."

It made Brenna feel more than a little sick to speak such lies, but she had learned long ago to be good at hiding hide her true opinion of people behind a mask of sweet talk and perfect understanding. Even Wencelas seemed to believe it. "You really think that?"

"I wouldn't have taken this job if I didn't think that you were the best at your craft."

Ramona managed a small smile when she heard this and said, "Thank you for that, Regina. It means a lot to hear you say that."

"No trouble, Miss Wenceslas."

"Please, Regina, call me Ramona."

"Of course, Ramona." said Brenna, trying very hard not to let a smile of triumph get in the way of her deception. If a person like Ramona was willing to let herself be called by her first name, than she knew that she had succeeded.

Ramona, who seemed to preoccupied with her own worries to perceive that she had just made a rather fatal error, seemed to pull herself back together. She dusted nonexistent specks of dust off her immaculate suit, and squared her shoulders. "Well, I do believe that we have wasted enough time. The showing is in a few days, we still have a lot of work to do." She turned abruptly, and began to walk out of the gallery. Despite her show of assurance, it seemed as though she wanted desperately to be out of the room which held the Vermeer.

However, Brenna lingered for just a moment. In-between sweet talking and deceiving Ramona, she had actually been stealing glances at the painting during the entire conversation, looking with a trained eye at the masterpiece, and it was truly a masterpiece it was. The copy was one of the best fabrications she had ever seen. It proved that Hector Branson had been a true genius. However, even the best of geniuses were capable of making mistakes if their materials were based on faulty information.

In this instance, Brenna hadn't known exactly what to look for, only hoping that an inconsistency would jump out at her. It was the golden stars in that masterfully executed sky that drew her eyes, a particular pattern in the stars brought to life by tiny spheres of paint. They were exquisitely done, yet they weren't supposed to be there. Those stars had only been in the night sky over the Thames for one moment, nearly 200 years after Vermeer had died.

With Ramona Wenceslas safely out of the room, Brenna allowed herself to finally smile in triumph. She knew exactly how this painting was a fake. It was time to bring this Iron Bitch down.

* * *

It was going to be a late evening at the Yard's White Collar unit. When Brenna finally was able to get way from Ramona Wenceslas and the Hickman Gallery, Alice had already brought Patrick and Trevor into the conference room. "I hope that you two have something good." said Patrick, as Brenna hurried in. "I really don't want to be late for my date tonight."

"Too bad for you, Patrick." said Alice, with exactly zero sympathy. "My husband is handling Lucy and Tracy tonight, both of whom have chicken pox. Believe me, I would rather be at home taking care of my two sick girls. Just be quiet, and listen. The sooner we can get this cleared up, the sooner we can all go back to our regular lives. On that note, Brenna, would you mind taking the floor?"

"From what I was able to find, I know that Ramona Wenceslas was communicating with someone through her e-mails that was helping her to fraud out the company which is insuring the painting. A group of thieves was going to break into the museum and steal the Vermeer before it even went on display. No one would have been any the wiser if I hadn't come across it."

"Nice," said Patrick, "Here I was thinking we would have to get her on something boring like trespassing."

"Well, not only that, but the same person who arranged all of this for Ramona also directly threatened Woodbridge when she brought up concerns that she had about him.

"If we can get a peek at those e-mails, than we could probably connect her as an accessory to murder." said Alice, "You got anything else from us?"

"Why would you ask me that?"

"Because I get the feeling that you know why the Vermeer is a fake, and you might as well show off when you have a good reason to do so."

"You know the Vermeer is a fake? That's got to be the biggest non-surprise of the year." said Patrick, sarcastically. "How did you break the Vermeer code?"

"By remembering that a forger is only as good as the materials that he has available. Though Hector Branson was a genius at craft, he set his sights a bit to high this time. The sources which he used as references for what the sky looked like from that specific angle appears to have been several centuries to late. Anybody here ever heard of the Van Buren supernova?"

"I have, it was a supernova discovered in 1858 by Clara Van Buren." said Trevor, almost immediately, which earned surprised looks from Alice and Patrick. "What? I read about her in UNI, I even wrote a few papers on her in astronomy. She was a woman astronomer who was largely ignored until the 1950's; she witnessed and researched at least twenty five major supernovas and other celestial phenomena. Her notes were found in the basement of a house, and ever since than she's been recognized as an innovator."

"Very good, Trevor." said Brenna, "I'm glad to see that you're finally beginning to find your voice on this team. You should really start speaking up more often; we can't let Patrick have all the limelight."

Trevor blushed at the praise and beamed, obviously quite delighted at the praise. Brenna continued, "But the thing that needs to be remembered is that Clara Van Buren lived from 1825 to 1896. During that time she witnessed a supernova that has subsequently been named after her."

She slid over a picture of the Van Buren Supernova to Alice. "The exploding star that she witnessed occurred between the constellations of Orion and Ursa Major. And it only appeared in the sky in 1858."

"And you saw it in the Vermeer." said Alice.

"Yes," said Brenna, "I saw the exact same star pattern in the same place in the night sky of the Vermeer. The only problem is that it's the wrong time. Vermeer was amazing, but I doubt that he invented time travel in his spare time. He couldn't have a painted a supernovae he had never seen, and one thy wouldn't occur for another 200 years."

"Good work, Brenna." said Patrick, "Even I have to take my hat off to you this time. I don't think anyone else would have been able to spot a detail like that."

"No, they probably couldn't have."

"And I'm sure that no one else would have been able to bring your brand of humility to the process either." commented Patrick, as he rolled his eyes.

"In light of all this, I think that we have enough to get a warrant and bring this woman down." said Alice, "Brenna, I hate to tell you this, but tomorrow you're going to be losing your new job, and your boss. In all likelihood, you'll be coming back to work with me."

"Believe me, after what I've been through with Wenceslas the last few weeks, I'm not going to be complaining about you any time soon."

* * *

Just everyone is aware, the Van Buren supernova actually didn't exist. It was made up for the show, so I thought I might as well make up the history behind it. Please read and review.


	9. Countdown

Countdown:

Brenna had not anticipated that she would get such a wicked pleasure out of witnessing the arrests of criminals. It had bothered her a little at first. She certainly hadn't felt anything like that at her own arrest, and as she had once been a criminal herself, it had seemed slightly disloyal. However, sometimes it felt really good being on the right side of the law, especially when it came to taking down bad guys with seemingly no real redeeming qualities. Ramona Wenceslas was one such person, and Brenna, for one, could not wait to see the look on her face when the Curator would finally be dragged off to prison.

However, arriving at work the next morning, she was somewhat surprised when she learned that she was apparently not the only who had business with the Curator. The police had already arrived to pay Ramona a visit, only it wasn't Alice Bennett who was there. It was her brother, Lestrade, and strangely enough, Sherlock and John were with him. She had learned from security that they had arrived half an hour before, Sherlock brazenly demanding to see the Vermeer. She had no idea why they would be there, unless it had something to do with this twisted game that Sherlock was being forced to play. Either way, it made her more than a little worried.

Alice arrived right on time, along with Patrick and a few other officers. Brenna could immediately see by the look on her face that something was wrong. "Alice, I'm afraid your not the first person here today. You might need to fight your brother for the first chance at Ramona. He's already beat you to it."

"As I suspected." said Alice, "Sherlock here as well?"

"Yes, he is." said Brenna, "How did you know? What's happened?"

"There was another hit by the Golem last night." Brenna groaned and buried her face in her hands. "That was exactly my reaction. Her name was Janice Cairns. She was a professor who worked at a planetarium that Woodbridge used to go to a lot during his off days. The two were friends. Alex must have told her about the suspicions that he had about the painting. He was an amateur star gazer, so he might have made the same connection which you did when he saw the painting."

"He must have wanted to be sure that his suspicions were correct by checking with an expert. Alex did mention that he was being followed." said Brenna, "If he went to the planetarium, the Golem might have inferred who he was talking with, and decided the Cairns also needed to be silenced in case she presented a challenge to the Vermeer's veracity."

Alice nodded. "She was killed last night. Sherlock and John were able to make the same connection which you did, and weren't able to get there in time. Thus, why they're here. Either way, another person is dead over this bloody painting. Masterpiece or not, that's to many for my taste."

Brenna shuddered in distaste. "Alice, if it's all right with you, I would like to hand in my resignation. I don' t suppose you have a position open?"

"Now, that you mention, I do have a position open for a consultant on a work release. You'd have to wear a tracking anklet just so you know."

"After today, I don't think that I'll object to those conditions."

They went through the Hickman, arriving at the gallery where the supposed Vermeer was being kept. Sure enough, there was Sherlock, John, Lestrade and Ramona all gathered around the painting. Sherlock seemed to typing something furiously into his phone, no doubt trying to figure out how the painting was a fake. Ordinarily, she might have felt a degree of smugness that she had managed to solve a case before he had.

But there was an intensity in Sherlock's face and attitude that belied his normally perfect confidence in solving any case. Someone's life could very well still be hanging on the outcome of this case. She didn't want Sherlock to have to face another failure.

Ramona was also there, and it was quite evident that she didn't want Sherlock to be there, though whether that was because she didn't want Sherlock to guess her secret, or because she simply found his presence annoying was open to debate. Sometimes, with Sherlock, it was very hard to distinguish the two.

"Inspector, my time is being wasted." Brenna heard her say with a sneer, "Would you mind showing yourself, and your friends out."

"I'm sure that they would be happy to be shown out." said Alice, as she stepped forward into the room, "Especially when I'll be leading you out in front of me, in hand cuffs."

Ramona, John and Lestrade all gaped in shock at Alice's sudden appearance, along with Brenna and the rest of the officers who were with them. Only Sherlock seemed totally unsurprised; indeed, he didn't even look up or speak, just continued typing madly on his phone, eyes set in intense concentration.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" asked Ramona.

"I'm obviously a police officer, and I just said that I'm going to arrest you. Do you need any more elaboration than that?"

"But that's ridiculous." said Ramona, "I haven't done anything wrong."

"Yeah," said Patrick, as he came forward with the cuffs, "That's what they all say. Truth is, we've got you on fraud and forgery, and there's a chance we could get you on accessory to murder as well."

"You don't have any evidence." Ramona objected, though the fearful paranoia which had been lingering underneath the surface was starting to seep out into panic.

"We not only have evidence, but we have an air-tight witness." Alice motioned to Brenna, who waved at Ramona.

Ramona's eyes went wide. "You… You've been working for them all along? Spying on me? Going behind my back?"

"Pretty much." said Brenna, "Of course, you were the only who lied first, so you really can't censure me for it. Besides, lying is the least of your worries. After all, you do have blood on your hands."

"What are you talking about? I haven't killed anyone."

"You have, actually." said Alice, "Alex Woodbridge and Professor Janice Cairns might still have been alive if you had just come clean about the painting being a fake."

"It's not a fake!" shrieked Ramona, desperately.

"Yes, it is." said Brenna, with the calm certainty of one who was absolutely confidant of the truth. It was a rather stark contrast to Ramona's almost hysterical posturing, and her next words deflated her completely. "I can prove it, too. You might as well give up on this scheme of yours', Ramona. It's over."

When she heard this, the fight seemed to go out of Ramona completely. Her head went down, her shoulders drooped, and she meekly allowed Patrick to begin putting the cuffs on her. Lestrade and John had been watching this whole thing in silence. There didn't seem to be anything for them to do, so they had wisely decided to step back and let Alice make the arrest. Now that was out of the way, they might have started to ask questions. But, at that very moment, a shrill ring pierced the silence.

The tension in the room immediately rose, and both Lestrade and John's faces showed sudden worry. Sherlock's body snapped straight up. He whirled around holding a pink mobile in his hand. "The painting's a take." He said, with an almost desperate assurance.

Brenna's immediate satisfaction at having finally defeated Ramona seemed to vanish when the phone rang. It could only be one person calling the phone, and she suddenly understood why Sherlock had seemed so tense and focused to the exclusion of most everything else. Someone's life depended on him getting the answer right this time. So soon after his first failure, he couldn't afford to become slack.

However, there came no answer from the phone to either reconfirm or deny Sherlock's answer. There was just an ominous silence. "The painting's a fake. I solved it, I figured it out." Sherlock insisted, hoping for some sort of response.

Still, there was silence, an almost mocking silence, as if the architect of this riddle were deliberately teasing Sherlock, goading him into making a mistake. And the most disturbing thing of all was that it seemed to be working. Sherlock was on edge, his normally breezy confidence having all but disappeared. Replacing it was a very real uncertainty. He was trying feverishly to keep a lid on his emotions so that he could focus on the case, but it was a challenge for him to do even that.

"The painting's a fake. That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed." This answer was apparently not good enough for whoever was on the other end, as the silence continued. Sherlock realized that nothing less than a complete elaboration would suit. He squared his shoulders, and finally said in a voice that was barely controlled. "All right, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?" Sherlock hated to concede, but he had no choice. He needed time if he was to make this next move in the game successful.

And the bomber was apparently ready to give it to him. The silence was finally broken, as a small, fearful voice, began intoning a countdown.

 _TEN…_

Lestrade's face blanched with horror. "It's a kid." He said, "My God, it's a kid."

Brenna didn't doubt that an image of his son's face flashed through Lestrade's mind. If Sherlock failed, Lestrade would be feeling the pain in more ways than one.

 _NINE…_

Sherlock, however, didn't even seem to notice the tension in the room. He only seemed to latch onto the fact that that he had been given more time, the amount did not matter. He whirled back to the painting, his eyes moving almost fast as the speed of the light, and words coming out as fast as his thoughts. Not even Brenna could make out all that he was saying. Sherlock's incredible skills had taken him to a place where only he could go, and she could only hope that it would be enough.

 _EIGHT…_

Sherlock's mind was racing. He had been given time, but even he knew that the clock was ticking. But would the bomber have given him any sort of time unless he thought that he was capable of finding the answer?

 _SEVEN…_

But what if he couldn't? What if he had to face failure again? He wasn't sure that he could handle that paralyzing feeling again in such a short span of time.

 _SIX…_

The desperation to beat the clock made Sherlock lose his nerve for one moment. He turned on Brenna and barked in a hard, abrupt manner. "Brenna, you said that you knew why this painting is a fake. This kid's gonna die. _Tell me_!"

The harshness in his voice made them all jump, even Brenna. But Sherlock immediately contradicted himself by snapping. "No, wait. Shut up. Don't say anything. It only works if I solve it."

 _FIVE…_

Turning back to the painting, he began to analyze it anew. What was it? Where was it? It had to be simple, oh so obvious. It was probably staring at him right in the face. He just had to find it.

 _FOUR…_

And than, just like that. It had come to him. Of course, how could he have missed it? "Oh, oh, John, in the planetarium, you heard it too."

 _THREE…_

Pushing the pink phone into Lestrade's hand, he hurried off a few paces, checking on his phone the date of the phenomenon he had seen in the painting. His face split an almost manic smile as he saw the answer. Of course, this was absolutely brilliant. He was loving this.

 _TWO…_

The little group of witnesses had said nothing during this entire thing. The tension and fear was rising with each second. Listening to the innocent voice counting down its own doom was almost to nightmarish to accept as real. However, when Sherlock actually started laughing, Lestrade could stand no more. "SHERLOCK!" He fairly roared, conveying in a single word the message that if Sherlock didn't hurry up and he got this kid killed, Lestrade would personally break every bone in his body.

However at the last possible second, Sherlock came running back, snatched the phone from Lestrade and declared triumphantly. "The Van Buren Supernova!"

For a terrible, breathless moment, there was silence. Even Sherlock wondered if had been to late yet again. But then, that tiny, fearful voice spoke once more. "Please, is anyone there? Please, help me."

Everyone breathing an enormous sigh of relief, including Sherlock himself. "Here you go." He said, handing the pink phone to Lestrade. "Find out where he is and pick him up." He turned back to the painting, and pointed to the irregular shape of glowing dots in the night sky. "The Van Buren Supernova, an exploding star that only appeared in the sky in 1858."

He moved away from the painting, Brenna following him closely. John, who was imminently relieved, also came to take a closer look at the painting. "So, how could it have been painted in the 1640's?"

Brenna went to Sherlock. The consulting detective was slightly jittery; he had come very close to losing once more, and even if he was hiding it very well, his relief was all to obvious. "Are you all right?" She asked.

Sherlock straightened and turned to look at her. "What? Of course, I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be?"

Brenna smiled a little and put a hand on his shoulder. "You don't always have to pretend to be strong Sherlock. Not with me."

For a second, Sherlock's mask of perfect control slipped. Brenna was able to see just how much the past few days had affected him. He was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. He was under a great deal of stress. Yet, he was endeavoring, even now, to remain strong. But Brenna understood. She understood perfectly, and Sherlock was grateful that she did so. He reached up to take hold of the hand that was on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly. It was a small gesture in itself, but it was enough.

Such times did not last long, though. The next moment, Sherlock was back to himself again. "How long, by the way?"

"Excuse me?"

"The painting, how long did it take you to realize that it was a fake?"

"Oh, not long, five, maybe ten minutes."

Sherlock stared at her, frowning in annoyance when he thought that it had actually taken him a lot longer. "Well, I still managed to figure it out under intense pressure, which is something you couldn't have done, I'm sure."

"That's something you can't prove, Sherlock, so it's illogical to even say it."

Sherlock opened his mouth to deliver a devastating put-down when Alice interrupted them. "Brenna, Sherlock, I would recommend that you save the heartfelt chat for another time. I don't think you want to miss a chance to interrogate Miss Wenceslas."

Sherlock and Brenna exchanged glances. "I think we should take this up at another time." said Brenna.

"If we must." said Sherlock, who already appeared bored at the idea.

As the two of them turned to follow Alice, Lestrade and the rest of the officers who were escorting Wenceslas out of the museum, John fell in step beside them. "Hey, uh, you won't mind if I drop out this time, do you?" he asked.

"Oh, John, what could you possibly have to do that would be more fun than this is undoubtedly going to be?" said Brenna.

"Nothing, it's nothing." said John, "Just something came up is all."

Brenna raised an eyebrow at John, and was about to call him out on his obvious lie, when Sherlock waved a hand in dismissal. "Go ahead, John. You can catch up with us later."

John nodded, and as soon as they were outside the Gallery, called for his own cab. As he got in and the cab drove off, Brenna looked over at Sherlock. "You know something about that, I assume?"

"Of course, but it's hardly important right now. I'll tell you about it later."

"I look forward to your explanation. Well, are you ready to have some fun?"

Sherlock smirked. "Oh, yes, quite ready."

* * *

 **Please read and review.**


	10. Criminal Whispers

Criminal Whispers:

In Lestrade's office at Scotland Yard, Wenceslas looked smaller and frailer than Brenna had ever seen her. She might have been tempted to feel sorry for the former museum director, but she had more or less brought it all upon himself. Brenna could only feel so much sympathy.

"You know, it's interesting. Bohemian stationary, an assassin named after a Prague legend, and you, Miss Wenceslas," Sherlock was saying, "This whole case has a distinctly Czech feeling. Is that were this leads?"

Wenceslas remained silent and didn't answer. "What are we looking at, Inspectors?" Sherlock pointedly asked both Alice and Lestrade.

Lestrade was really making no attempt to hide his disgust of Wenceslas. He made no attempt to hide the distaste in his tone of voice as he began listing the crimes which Wenceslas was guilty of. "Well, let's see, fraud, conspiracy, accessory after the fact, the murder of the old woman, all the people in the flats…"

That finally got a reaction out of Ramona. Her eyes went wide with panic, as she cried, "Look, I didn't know about that. Please, all those things! Believe me. I just wanted my share, of the thirty million."

"And yet you were still quite willing to stand by and let two other people get killed for the sake of your greed." said Brenna.

"But, I didn't know-"

"Spare us your excuses, Wenceslas." said Alice, sharply, "We know that you were in contact with someone who was going to "take care of Alex Woodbridge", to use their exact words. You can't honestly tell me that you didn't think phrase might have meant something just a bit more sinister."

She leaned in closer, her gray eyes smoldering, and her tone having dropped to a dangerous level. "What we have on you right now, could send you away for a very, very long time. And I don't care what you did or didn't know. Because of you, two people are dead. An innocent boy could have been a third. Would the thirty million have been enough for you to live with that knowledge? Would you have cared at all?"

Ramona's entire posture seemed to wilt even further under Alice's piercing stare. All the fight had effectively been beaten out of her. "It's entirely up to you, Wenceslas." Alice continued, "You can go to prison with a guilty conscious, or one which is slightly less so. Depending on what you know, a few years might be knocked off your sentence. I would advise you to start talking."

There was a long pause, before Ramona finally began talking. "I met a little old man in Argentina. A genius, I mean, brushwork immaculate, could have fooled anyone." Sherlock and Brenna both scoffed. Ramona was quick to amend her last statement. "Well, almost anyone. But I wasn't sure how to go about convincing the world that the picture was genuine. It was just an idea. A spark that he blew into a flame."

Sherlock had only been listening with half an ear to Wenceslas' confession. However, when he heard this last part, his ears suddenly seemed to perk up. "Who?" He demanded, eagerly.

"I don't know." Alice and Lestrade were clearly skeptical about this claim, but Ramona protested, "It's true! I mean, it took a long time, but eventually, I was put in touch with people, his people. Well, there was never any real contact, just messages, whispers."

Sherlock's entire attitude had become one of acute interest. He was almost leaning off the edge of his chair, straining to catch even the tiniest scrap of information concerning his unseen opponent. "And did those whispers have a name?"

For a moment, Ramona didn't answer. Like nearly everyone else who had had dealings with this shadowy mastermind, there was a hint of almost supernatural fear connected with him, to the point where people were reluctant to even speak his name out in the open. However, Ramona finally, hesitantly spoke a single word, "Moriarty."

That seemed to be all that Sherlock needed to know. Leaning back in his chair, he smiled in an odd, almost excited manner. The game was continuing, and now that he knew for sure who his opponent was, he fully intended to win.

* * *

After Ramona had confessed to her part in the Vermeer fraud, she was put in handcuffs, and taken away to be processed. As Brenna watched her leave, she felt once more an odd stab of pity for the museum director. Ramona had hardly been anything other than a cold, unfeeling woman, but Brenna wondered if perhaps she had gotten involved in something far bigger and more darker than she had originally planned for. By the time she had discovered this, she had become far to enmeshed to escape.

She had seen it happen so many times over her own years as a thief. It could happen to the best, and she could only count herself lucky that she had never found herself in such a situation. She also knew that it could very easily have been her in Ramona's place at any time. The fact that she was even out of prison was something she could never allow herself to forget, nor that it might be easier for her to be sent back than she might have liked to think about.

"You're not sorry to be seeing your new boss being carted off, are you?" Alice asked, as she came up to stand beside Brenna, no doubt noticing the thoughtful expression on her face.

Grateful to be distracted from her rather depressing train of thought, Brenna turned to Alice with a smile. "No, I much prefer my old boss."

Alice raised an eyebrow. "Really? You say that even though you're going to be watched now like you were before?" She held up the anklet, her point more than obvious.

"Why must you insist on destroying all the joy I have in life?" Brenna asked, with a melodramatic sigh, as she took the anklet.

"I can't have you like me to much, I'm afraid. It goes against the rules."

Brenna rolled her eyes, and bent down to secure the anklet around her leg once more. As she was doing so, Sally Donovan came up to them. For some bizarre reason, Brenna got the distinct feeling that the Sergeant was eying her with a bit more suspicion than she usually did. "That was good work that you did back there." She said, though it sounded as if the compliment were being dragged out of her word by word, "It might have taken us a lot longer to catch up with Wencelas if you hadn't figured it out."

"I won't dispute that." said Brenna, "But, the cost was still to high. Two people are dead, and an assassin got away."

"All the same, it could have been a lot worse." said Donovan, "Speaking of which, We were able to find the boy that was on the phone, by the way. He was tied up with explosives in the back-room of a shopping mall. If the bomb had gone off, the damage might have been extensive."

Brenna breathed a sigh of relief. "Good. Maybe we're one step closer to having this craziness ended."

"And you and Sherlock can go back to banging each other afterward, like you've been doing."

Brenna's mouth dropped open, and she stared at Donovan in speechless shock. Alice was also surprised, though she was looking towards Brenna with an expression of disbelief. "I... I don't... what did you just say?" Brenna finally managed to stumble out.

"Sherlock spent the night at your place a few nights ago. One of the patrols around the area saw him leaving early. Can't say I blame you for needing some stress relief, but you could have waited for a more decent time. Lestrade insisted that Sherlock let him know if he had anymore calls from that bomber."

Brenna had somewhat recovered herself by this point. She began to wonder if Donovan hadn't come over here for the express purpose of getting some juicy gossip that she could spread around the department. She was about to snap at Donovan that she really should mind her own business, until she got a better idea.

She smiled at Donovan, an overly friendly and enthusiastic smile which was deliberately meant to put her on edge. "Oh, yes, that was Sherlock. Funny that you mention it, I was pretty surprised myself that Sherlock was even able to walk home last night after what I put him through."

Donovan's confidence faltered, as she obviously hadn't expected Brenna to take the bait so easily. "Walk? What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know, some techniques can be incredibly taxing on the body, especially when they're done multiple times across so many surfaces. Now that I think about it, it might have been a mistake to try it on the rug; the burn can be so very uncomfortable."

By this point, Donovan was starting to look increasingly uncomfortable herself. Alice's eyes grew wider, and she turned away from the two of them, her hand covering her mouth, though to cover sounds of disgust or hysterical laughter was hard to fathom.

Donovan was now afraid that she had perhaps bit off more than she could chew. She certainly hadn't been prepared for Brenna to launch into a detailed retelling of her's and Sherlock's sexual exploits. "Um, okay. Well, that's interesting, Brenna, but-"

"I did try to tell Sherlock that some of the positions would be impossible for him at his stage, but you know how stubborn he can be. All the same, just between the two of us, you wouldn't recognize Sherlock when he really gets into it. The things I've been able to get him to do, the things I've gotten him to say, it's actually amazing how earnestly I can get him to beg for whatever he wants."

"And what was that I begged you for so enthusiastically?" Donovan yelped in surprise at the sound of the expected voice and turned around, only to see that Sherlock had come up behind her. She quickly backed up two steps from Sherlock, trying to put as much distance between her and the Detective as possible.

"You... you actually let her do those things to you?" asked Donovan, her imagination no doubt running wild now, even if she had only heard vague hints from Brenna.

Sherlock seemed completely mystified by Donovan's question. "What things?"

"You know, Sherlock, that thing you really wanted me to do to you, with the Japanese knots and the water? Drove you absolutely insane."

Sherlock stared at her for several seconds, until he finally seemed to catch on. "Oh, yes, of course. It was... quite exhilarating. But, I don't know if I received the full benefits. Do you think we can try doing it again?"

"Oh, maybe, if you really beg me."

Alice, her back still turned to the proceedings, made a noise which was something between a choke and a cough. Sherlock, for his part, didn't so much as blink, but went right on with the charade. In fact, he took a step towards Brenna, staring directly into her eyes with a heated expression on his face. His voice even dropped an octave as he said, "I could always tie the knots a little tighter the next time, on _you._ "

"I would like to see you try." said Brenna, putting on her best sultry tone. She almost wondered if she saw Sherlock's pupils dilating slightly because of this little game they were playing, but she couldn't be entirely sure.

"Oh, you would love it, I know you would." said Sherlock, "You were quite verbal in your appreciation. I seem to remember that I wasn't the only one who was begging for release."

"Enough! Enough!" cried Donovan, whose hands were pressed over her ears. "I've heard enough! Please, just shut up."

"Oh, sorry, Donovan" said Sherlock, abruptly taking a step away from Brenna, his voice and attitude losing all hint of dark seduction almost instantly. "Brenna should really know better than to start me on this path. She knows how eager I can be. You know, it's probably for the best that you and Anderson lead such a dull sexual life. You have no idea how demanding a specialist like Brenna can be."

"Though if you ever want some new techniques, Sherlock and I would be more than happy to give you a demonstration."

Donovan, sickened by what she had just heard, darted between the two of them, muttering under her breath as she did so, "If I didn't think that you two were a pair of freaks already, I would know now."

As she scurried away, Brenna turned a grateful smile at Sherlock. "Thank you for assisting me in the deception."

"No problem, though you might have warned me we were going to engage Donovan in a perfectly childish manner."

"Come on, you enjoyed it, you know you did."

Sherlock gave her the barest hint of a smirk. "Now that you mention it, I rather did."

Alice, who had spent the last several minutes trying to hide her laughter, now finally turned around. "Dare I ask how much of that was true?"

"Besides the part about Sherlock spending the night, absolutely nothing." said Brenna.

"Yes, I merely was seeking Brenna's help in the most recent case I was faced with."

"Hey, I believe you. Even if I didn't, you wouldn't have to explain anything to me. I'm not your mother, and frankly, I don't care what the two of you do during your off-hours. Quite frankly, I don't want to hear about it, either. You do know that Donovan's opinion of you two is probably going to be even lower now?"

Brenna shrugged. "So many of the people who work here already think that I'm beyond redemption, it will hardly matter if they add depraved sex maniac to my list of many crimes. I daresay that some of them already thought that anyway."

"Well, I would love to stay and chat, I'm afraid we have to be going, Brenna." said Sherlock, in his usual peremptory way.

It was now Brenna's turn to be confused. "I beg your pardon? Where are we going exactly?"

"Where do you think we're going? Haven't you noticed that John didn't come back to the Yard with us? We need to check in on him, see how he's coming along."

"Sherlock, could you please try and go against habit and explain yourself for once?"

"Come now, Brenna, we don't have time for this. I'll explain it to you on the way there."

Brenna sighed and rolled her eyes. "Thank you for speaking with me about how I wanted to spend the rest of my day."

"And thank you for just assuming I would give my permission." said Alice, "I can't help but assume that this little side task might take you out of your normal radius, Brenna."

Sherlock, as usual, seemed utterly puzzled by their sarcasm. "I don't see the problem here. You don't have anything else you require Brenna to do, Bennett. And I can assure you that her help will be instrumental to me in finding a murderer."

"We just cracked a case of international art fraud, and now you want to go running after a murderer?" remarked Brenna.

"Yes." said Sherlock, without hesitation, and not without a little bit of impatient eagerness, "And the longer we stand around here chatting about inane topics, the more time we waste. Let's go."

Alice looked at Brenna. "Well, what do you say, Brenna? You feel like going from grand art theft to a probable murder case?"

Brenna held up her hands in surrender. "Oh, why not? I know that if I don't go with you, I'll just be worried about what sort of trouble you'll get into without me there to talk some sense into you."

"Go on then." said Alice, with a smile, "I don't need you for anything else today, Brenna. Have fun."

"Fun, right." muttered Brenna, as she followed Sherlock, who had already started to exit the Scotland Yard offices. However, despite her show of annoyance, she couldn't help the small, eager grin which spread across her face. She might not have admitted it to anyone, but there was no place where she would rather be.

* * *

They caught a cab outside of Scotland Yard, and it was only until they were on their way that Sherlock told her anything about where they were going. "You remember that case which Mycroft brought to me a few days ago?"

"How could I forget it? Andrew West, the unfortunate civil servant who carried around a memory stick with top secret plans for our national defense, found dead on the train tracks at Battersea Station. I seem to remember that you turned it down simply because the case came from Mycroft."

"Well, not entirely. I had John take over the case for me when Mycroft refused to stop pestering me. I've been keeping an eye on the case through his eyes, no less."

Brenna couldn't believe what she had heard. "John? You actually let John take a case for you?"

"Yes, why not? John has an average mind, and he doesn't understand the important details as quickly as he should, but he is somewhat faster than normal people."

"Wow, coming from you that's quite a compliment. How has he been doing?"

"Quite well, actually. He did come to the right conclusion rather slowly, but that's hardly his fault. Mycroft directed him to West's fiancée first. It should have been to the Battersea Train Station."

"I assume that's where we're going now."

"Yes, John is finally going in the right direction, and I believe that he's about to make a major break-through."

"And you want to be there when he discovers it. That's so sweet, Sherlock. Since you've been following him, would I be right in assuming that you know who actually killed West."

"Of course, it's obvious."

"Of course, it is." muttered Brenna, "Are you going to inform him of that yourself, or make him guess?"

"I don't know. I'll see where my mood takes me."

Brenna rolled her eyes and refrained to comment.

They rode on in silence for a few minutes before Sherlock spoke up again. "So, in regards to what you told Donovan about us and our sex life..."

"What about it?" asked Brenna, "Sherlock, I was kidding. You know that."

"Yes, of course, and it was quite enjoyable seeing her squirm. However, I thought it might be a good time to discuss the sexual aspect of our relationship."

Brenna looked over at Sherlock, more than a little confused that he should be bringing this up now. "We haven't even slept together, Sherlock. What makes you think that we should talk about that?"

"I imagine that we will be sleeping together at some point." said Sherlock, "As a matter of fact, we have exceeded the usual amount of time that most couples in a serious relationship begin engaging in sexual activity. I believe that it will be less than six weeks to two months for us to begin the process. That being the case, we should each probably know what the other is expecting."

Brenna raised an eyebrow. Sherlock's description sounded almost coldly clinical to many ears. Perhaps it was. But then again, it was how Sherlock saw so much of the world. Considering his unique skills, that was hardly surprising. Sherlock was always seeking to compartmentalize, measure and identify every element in a situation. It was only natural that he should be doing the same in their relationship, especially when so many aspects were entirely foreign to him.

On the other hand, she could also read Sherlock's behavior better than almost anyone. She could see that he was nervous about even bringing this up. He was studiously avoiding eye contact with her, and there was a tension evident in his entire. He seemed to deliver his words with his usual iron-clad certainty, but, Brenna could hear the slight pauses he made right before key words, as though even he was not certain how to phrase exactly what he wanted to say.

And yet, the fact that he had even considered asking touched her more deeply than she had expected. There was more than a few advantages to dating someone like Sherlock Holmes. One was that he never failed to surprise her.

"All right, what do you want to know?"

"To start off, I believe that the practices which you described to Donovan actually didn't appeal to your sexual tastes. From what I have deduced of your sexual arousal, you prefer to have both partners free and unrestrained, I believe is the word."

"You were able to pick up on that?" asked Brenna, with a smirk.

"Well, it's also psychological for you. Your first instinct when being put in a pair of handcuffs would undoubtedly be to escape."

Brenna's lips quirked up in a smile. "Yeah, probably true. Unfortunately, that doesn't really answer your question." She took a moment to consider the issue, before finally admitting. "Honestly, it's been awhile, Sherlock. This is the first time in my entire life I've ever actually been in a committed relationship."

Sherlock frowned, his eyes having taken on their usual expression of intense concentration when there was a problem which he couldn't decipher at once. "My own personal experience has also been somewhat limited in this regard. However, I think I could make some helpful observations on your part which might shed light on your confusion."

"Oh, this will be good. Please, continue, Sherlock. I can't wait to hear what you have to come up with."

"Despite the regret you carry about your somewhat colorful past, it did gave you a rather good idea of what you enjoy most. Taking into consideration your own personality, you enjoy foreplay, both physical and verbal. The more drawn out and clever you can make it with your partner, the more pleasurable you find the ultimate experience."

"Once again, I'm in awe of how you can somehow put every one of my supposedly baser emotions, and describe them in such scientific terms." said Brenna, "Have I ever told you how attractive I find that?"

"You have, though, it's been only recently I've observed signs of arousal whenever you happen to be near me at a crime scene. You like my deductions. Do you mind if I ask why?"

"Shouldn't the answer be obvious? You have an incredibly brilliant mind, Sherlock. You're able to figure things out that no one else can. You see the world with a singular gaze, as though nothing else matters. Do you have any idea how many times I've imagined that sort of attention from you when we would be involved in intimate situations?"

Sherlock stared at her, and Brenna saw his hands clenching at the images that she had just planted in his Mind Palace, one which she was fairly certain he wouldn't be able to delete any time soon. She continued, "Anything that you set your mind to, you have a way of succeeding at. You like a challenge, same as I do. I have a very good feeling about the... different situations we could come up with, not to mention positions."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to have dilated slightly, as though listening to Brenna simply talking about sex was enough to turn him on. He shook his higher brain functions again. "Sex has never been a particular interest of mine." he admitted, his voice sounding strangely thick. "I've always prided myself on being in control on my... lower impulses. Forming this relationship with you has been a test of my self-control."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. We can just forget the whole thing."

"I wasn't saying that." said Sherlock, almost to quickly. "What I mean is, I pride myself on being an expert in many things. So, any expectations which you might have of my... performances."

Brenna smiled gently, taking one of Sherlock's hands. "Sherlock, the only expectation that I want out of the prospect of us sleeping together is that it's what you want, and that it will bring us closer together."

She paused for a moment, before she smirked. Taking her hand out of his, she moved it slowly up his leg, and towards his thigh. Sherlock, despite himself, was watching the progress of her hand as she moved it slowly higher and higher. He swallowed visibly as she paused just a few inches away from where she was quite certain that he wanted her most.

She dressed her voice to a husky whisper, "But, if you ever feel you need to practice, I'll be more than willing to help you, in whatever way you need."

There was a sharp intake of breath from Sherlock, and he closed his eyes tightly, ever muscle in his body tensing. It seemed as though he were using very ounce of self-control to not grab her hand, and force it upward. But, at that very moment, the cab suddenly came to a halt in front of the Battersea Train Station.

"Oh, look we seem to be here." said Brenna, moving her hand away from Sherlock's thigh and glanced out the window, as though absolutely nothing was out of the ordinary. "I suppose we had better go and see if we can find John.

Sherlock, who still appeared to be breathing heavily, shot her a dark, annoyed glare. Brenna was already moving to open the door. Noticing the expression he was giving her, she gave him a sweet smile and shrugged. "Well, to paraphrase what you said to me at the Hickman, you really don't want our first time to be in the back of a moving cab with the driver watching in the rear-view window do you?"

Sherlock grumbled something, but it seemed as though his self-control was starting to reassert itself, as his eyes cleared and his body once more relaxed into his usual confidant manner. They both exited the cab and entered the train station.

Winding their way along the various track lines and parked trains, they finally came to the place where Andrew West had been killed. Sure enough, there was John, kneeling beside the track, staring at the lines intensely. Right as they were coming up to him, the lines on the tracks switched directions.

"Points." said Sherlock, as they came up behind him.

John had been right on the verge of making that same deduction, and when he heard it spoken behind him, he exclaimed excitedly. "Yes!" Whirling around and coming face to face with Sherlock and Brenna.

"Knew you'd get there, eventually. Andrew West wasn't killed here, that's why there's so little blood."

John's elation at having made a breakthrough had swiftly evaporated once he realized that Sherlock, as per usual, seemed to have solved the case without doing any of the actual leg-work. "How long have you been following me?"

"Since the start." said Sherlock, as though it should have been obvious. "You don't think that I would give up on a case like this just to spite my brother do you?"

"Wouldn't you?" said Brenna, with a grin.

Sherlock shot Brenna a daggerish glare, before saying to John, "Come on, got a little bit of burglary to do. It's a good thing we brought a thief along with us."

"Technically, we're not going to be stealing anything." said Brenna, as they began walking. "This memory stick belonged to the government in the first place. We'll simply be returning it to the proper owners."

"But we might still be doing some breaking and entering." said Sherlock.

"Are we going to be breaking anything?"

"Most likely not."

"That won't be a problem either. The breaking comes from the actual entering. Ergo, if we don't break anything as we enter, we won't be breaking any laws."

John looked at Brenna with a raised eyebrow. "Is this how you justified your criminal exploits?"

"The one thing that you learn about being a thief, John, is that legalistic terms are very open to interpretation. It takes care of a lot of moral headaches if you can find out the loopholes."

* * *

Another taxi ride and a short walk later brought them to another neighborhood of old homes which ran parallel to the tracks. Indeed, the low rumble of the trains seemed to punctuate the quiet at regular intervals.

"The missile defense plans haven't left the country, otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it." Sherlock was saying as they walked along the street. "Despite what people think, we do still have a secret service."

"Yeah, I know." said John, wryly, "I've met them."

"Which means whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it." Sherlock agreed. "My money's on the latter."

"You're right, Sherlock." said Brenna, "Whether it's a rare painting or a memory stick with top secret government plans, it's not always getting something which is the hard part. It's trying to get _rid_ of it."

Sherlock acknowledged this with a nod, although he had been scanning the buildings which they had been passing by, paying close attention to their numbers. Finally, he seemed to locate the one which he had been seeking. "We're here."

"Where?" asked John, looking slightly confused.

Sherlock, of course, didn't answer, as they made their way up the steps to the door of an apartment building. "Brenna, work your magic." said Sherlock, indicating the door.

"Couldn't you do this?" Brenna asked, as she pulled out her lock picking set and went to work on the door.

"Well, of course, but I thought you might like to feel needed."

"Thank you so much for thinking of like that, Sherlock. It really is very sweet of you." Brenna said, making no attempt to hide her sarcasm.

"Sherlock, what if there's someone in?" John asked, looking around a little nervously.

"There isn't." said Sherlock, though his assurance really didn't help John feel anymore comfortable about the situation.

A few seconds later and Brenna felt the tumblers in the lock releasing. She tested the door knob, and found that it was now loose. "Well, after you." She said, as she pushed the door open.

"Sherlock, where are we?" John asked, as they proceeded into the flat.

"Oh, sorry, didn't I say? Joe Harrison's flat."

"Joe Harrison?" said John.

"Yes, brother of West's fiancee. He stole the memory stick, killed his prospective brother-in-law." Sherlock went over to the window-sill as he was speaking. He crouched down so that he was at eye level with the sill. There he saw what he was hoping to see: tiny flecks of red against the white paint. He got out his magnifying glass to get a closer look, though he was merely confirming what he already knew. He knew blood when he saw it.

John and Brenna walked across to Sherlock, looking over his shoulder. They saw the blood spatter on the window. Brenna also saw that beyond the window was a shed that could be easily accessed from the same window. The shed extended all the way to the rail line beyond the row of brick houses. She couldn't help but think that was incredibly convenient.

"Then why'd he do it?" John asked.

Behind them, they heard the door to the apartment opening. They all turned at the sound. "Let's ask him." Sherlock suggested.

John moved towards the door, reaching for his gun. When he got to the doorway, he was just in time to catch Joe Harrison carrying his bike into the flat. Joe started like a cornered deer, before reacting out of pure self-defense, grabbing his bike and raising it above his head, almost intending to use it as a weapon to charge or throw at the army doctor. But John's gun was already raised, the cold warning in his voice impossible to stand against. "Don't, _don't_!"

Joe hesitated for only a split second, but he knew that any further attempt at fighting would be utterly useless. A few minutes later, he was sitting on the sofa. He wasn't able to hide the remorse and guilt that had been eating at him for quite some time. "It wasn't meant to… Oh, God what's Lucy going to say?"

"Why did you kill him?" asked John.

"It was an accident. I swear it was."

"But stealing the plans for the missile defense program wasn't an accident, was it?" Sherlock asked, bitingly.

"I started dealing drugs. I mean, the bike thing's a great cover, right? I don't know how it happened, but it just got out of hand. I owed people thousands, serious people. Then, at Westy's engagement do, he starts talking about his job. You know, normally he's so careful. But that night, after a few pints, he really opened up. Told me about these missile plans, beyond top secret. He showed me the memory stick; he waved it in front of me. You hear about these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish tips and what not. And there it was, and I thought... well, I thought it could be worth a fortune. It was pretty easy to get thing off of him, he was so plastered."

"I can imagine that Westy didn't stay ignorant of your little theft for long." said Brenna.

Joe shook his head. "Next time, I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew."

"What happened?" asked John.

Joe didn't respond at first, though his silence spoke volumes in and of itself. "I pushed him down the stairs." He admitted, at last, "His skull was smashed in when it landed on the pavement. I was gonna call an ambulance, but it was too late. I just didn't have a clue what to do, so I dragged him up here, and just sat in the dark, thinking."

The distant call of a train horn rapidly approaching the row of houses seemed an almost ghostly echo of that night, and Sherlock needed no other clue as to what had happened. "When a neat little idea popped into your head." said Sherlock, as the rest of the blanks became filled. "You thought, how simple it would be if Andrew West happened to be found on a train line, with a smashed in head. Surely it would look more like suicide than foul play. So, you opened the window, dragged him over the sill and placed him on top of the train. Carrying Andrew West way away from here. His body would have gone one for ages if the train hadn't met a stretch of track that curved."

"And points." said John, as he remembered the section of track which he had been investigating earlier that day. The curve of the track, combined with the speed of the train as it was going through the point would have caused Andrew West's body to slip from the roof of the train, falling to the track where he was found the next day.

"Exactly." said Sherlock, looking at John with approval.

Silence filled the room, until John finally asked. "Do you still have it then? The memory stick?"

Joe nodded. "Fetch it for me." said Sherlock, "If you wouldn't mind." It was far from being a request.

Joe made no attempt to object. Meekly, he got to his feet, and left the room. That left the thee of them alone. Sherlock waited until he was sure that they wouldn't be overheard, before going over to John and saying in a low voice. "So, distraction over, the game continues."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?" asked Brenna.

"The bomber, Brenna. This was just a stop along the road. He should have contacted me by now, judging how his pattern has been going."

"Well, maybe _that's_ over to." said John, "Like you said, we've heard nothing from the bomber."

"Five pips, remember, John?" said Sherlock, "It's a countdown. We've only had four."

Brenna would have liked very much to believe what John had said. She wanted this entire thing to be over. Yet, there was a look in Sherlock's eyes which spoke of absolute certainty. Seeing that look, she couldn't help but feel that maybe the worst was still yet to come.


	11. Healing Bonds

Healing Bonds:

It was the end of a long and difficult week for Brenna. After going through a trying undercover assignment, revealing a fraudulent gallery owner and uncovering a brilliant forgery, not to mention helping to track down a murderer and top secret plans for a missile defense system, she ordinarily would have curled up on her couch with a good book and Lily for cuddling. However, there was one more test that Brenna had to face, and to be quite honest, it frightened her more than any dangerous undercover assignment which she could be given.

She was going to have dinner with a sister that she hadn't spoken to in over two years.

Over the past few months, she had been writing back and forth with Martha. When her sister had first written to her, it had come as nothing short of a surprise to Brenna. She had delayed answering the letter for nearly a week, as she had feared that it couldn't be true. However, over time, they had developed something of a routine exchange of letters.

Their correspondence had not been effusive, by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, it sometimes struck Brenna as being down right ordinary, as though she and Martha had communicated every week their entire lives. Neither of them had said the things which they both knew they would need to discuss as some point. But, when Martha had mentioned that she would be in town that week and wanted to have dinner, Brenna had not been able to say no.

She had arrived at the restaurant a full fifteen minutes early, and waited anxiously to see if Martha would even show up. When she caught sight of her coming towards the table, she got to her feet. Once Martha got there, the two sisters stood staring awkwardly at each other for a long time.

"I was almost half afraid that you wouldn't come." Brenna said, at least.

"I'll be honest with you, I wasn't entirely sure myself." Martha admitted.

Somehow, the knowledge that they had both been nervous about this meeting made them feel a little better. Once they had ordered their food, Brenna said, "I was surprised when I received your first letter. After over two years of not hearing from... well, any of you, I wasn't sure how to react."

"It was something that I've been meaning to do for awhile." said Martha. "It really should have been done sooner. But, something always kept me back."

"Are you glad that you did it?"

"I hope that I will be. To be honest, the reason why I wanted to do it was because I thought it was time that I tried to find some answers, and only you could give them to me."

"What kind of questions did you want answers to?"

"Actually," admitted Martha, after a long moment of silence, "there is probably only one which matters right now."

Brenna took a deep breath and sat back in her chair. "I think that I can already guess what that is."

"Why, Brenna? Why did you leave us? I'm not asking out of anger or resentment, though I can't deny that I felt those things for a long time. Now, I just feel so confused and conflicted whenever I think about it. I just want to know why."

Brenna opened her mouth, but she could think of nothing to say. She had the smoothest tongue of anyone she knew. She could concoct a lie from thin air, one that would withstand even the strongest scrutiny (or at least, allowed her enough time to get away). But this... this she could not talk her way out of. This was the hardest part of her past that she had to face, and it was so easy to just keep it locked away in a dark corner of her mind. But she couldn't do that with Martha. Martha deserved to know.

"I can't explain it in any way that you might fully understand. You don't know what went through my mind when I was working a heist, when I was breaking into a safe with jewels that were worth a fortune, or sneaking into a museum with top notch security to steal an old masterpiece that no one said could ever be taken. Some of it was the money, but there was always something else that made me keep doing it. It was the feeling of knowing that I was doing something that was supposed to be impossible, that I was racing against the clock. It filled me with an excitement and an adrenaline that I soon began to crave. I couldn't live without it, and I would do anything to get it."

She paused and looked at Martha, hoping that she would try to understand what she was driving at. Martha was listening intently, with a serious, thoughtful expression on her face, processing everything that Brenna was saying. "So, you're saying that you became addicted?"

"Yes, in a manner of speaking. I know that it sounds crazy, but it's true. And what addict can ever rationally explain why they keep going back to whatever it is they crave? They know that it's wrong, that it hurts the people closest to them, but they just keep needing more and more. They can't stop themselves. I can't explain it any other way."

"I think that I understand, a little." said Martha, after a moment, "What made you stop?"

Brenna looked down, and she felt tears sting her eyes as she remembered that day long ago when she had seen her father's casket being lowered into the ground. "I hit bottom. I heard that dad had died, and I realized that I had wasted four years of my life chasing something that didn't exist. You don't know how often I regret the fact that I never got to say goodbye, that I had never had the chance to tell him how sorry I was."

For a long time, Martha was silent, as she watched Brenna struggling with her feelings. Finally, she said, "Brenna, I wasn't sure if I should tell you this tonight. But, I came here to try and heal the bonds of our family. You just told me something that was difficult, I suppose I owe you the same."

"What do you mean?"

"Did you know that Lizzy confronted us about the way we treated you during the funeral?"

Brenna looked up, her eyes flashing with surprise. "What? But I specifically told her not to. I didn't want there to be anymore trouble at the funeral because of me."

"She didn't say anything at the funeral. This was a few weeks after. She told us all that though she would never bring up the subject again, she could not let our behavior pass. She said that we had done badly the entire thing. She wanted to know how we could have been so cruel and unfeeling to you, at the very moment when you had tried to show that you were ready to try and make a new start. It wasn't what dad would have wanted, and we had dishonored his memory by refusing you a place at his funeral. None of us could say anything in our own defense, because deep down, we all knew that she was right. I felt it especially. If they had all known what I had known…"

"What do you mean? What did you know?"

"I never told anyone this, Brenna, but the night before dad died, he called me. It seemed like a regular call at first, he said hello to his grandkids, asked Nicholas how his practice was. But when he talked to me, he started to say some strange things. He told me that he had been thinking about you a lot, and that he sometimes wished he could have found a way to bring you home. His greatest wish was just to see us all as a family again. He knew that there were things which you would have had to pay for, but that there would have been time. He just wanted to know that you were safe and that you were loved. As I look back on it, I almost wonder if he didn't somehow know that he was going to die, and that he wanted me to pass that message along to you."

Throughout Martha's entire speech, Brenna had been listening with increasing shock and a feeling that could only be described as a great and overwhelming sadness. It was crippling sometimes, the grief that she still felt for her father. When she was reminded of it in moments like this, she couldn't control herself. She didn't try to hide the tears that were now flowing down her cheeks. Martha, after watching Brenna, hesitantly reached out and took her hand, giving her comfort that she so desperately needed.

"I wanted to tell you this, Brenna. Several times, I thought of picking up the phone and telling you. But at the time, the pain was still to raw. I was at war between different parts of myself. I can see now, though, that whatever you might have done, I was wrong to not tell you, or even to say anything in your defense. That's really why I wrote to you, why I wanted to get in contact with you. I've been teaching my children the importance of forgiveness, but I was beginning to realize that my lessons would never take root if I didn't practice what I preached myself, especially in the relationships that were closest to me. I suppose what I wanted to say all along is that I'm sorry, Brenna."

Brenna's eyes met those of her sister. "Would you accept my forgiveness if I offered it?"

Martha smiled. "Yes, of course."

Both of them knew, that one single dinner could not take the place of all the many years which they had lost. But it was a beginning. But, at least a first step had been made, and as the first step towards forgiveness is always the most difficult, the fact that they had manage to do that, was more than enough for them both.

The rest of the meal proceeded much the same way as their letters did, though there seemed to be a slightly lighter, more hopeful feeling to their conversation. However, as they were finishing, Martha took one more step which not even Brenna had been expecting. "Brenna, Nicholas has to come to London next month on business. The children will be coming with us. Would you like to meet them?"

Brenna's heart leapt at the invitation. "Of course, I've wanted to meet them for such a long time." She paused, before asking, somewhat nervously, "What… what have you told them about me?"

"I told them what they needed to know, what they could understand. I told them that you've been gone for a long time, trying to make up for some mistakes that you've made."

"That's actually very accurate. Thank you, Martha. That means a lot to me."

When the dinner was over, both sisters could not help but feel that something definite had changed. They felt like they were finally connected to each other, after a distance of time and space which had lasted for far too long. The hug which they shared was a little awkward, but also one of genuine affection. They hoped that it was only the beginning of a new relationship.

* * *

It would have been difficult for anything to spoil Brenna's mood after her dinner with Martha. When John sent her a text asking if she would mind looking after Sherlock for the evening, she accepted rather readily. Spending a few hours in Baker St. with an irate Sherlock was an ideal way to see if that theory would hold.

It was strange how easily the three of them had fallen into a bizarrely normal routine over the last few months. John and Brenna were working on their laptops, and Sherlock was sitting in his chair, knees drawn up to his chest, watching some awful talk show on the telly. The pink phone was lying on the armrest. It hadn't rung since the museum, and Sherlock, still convinced that there was a fifth test he had to pass, was not taking the tension very well. His body was twitching spasmodically with pent-up energy, and Brenna thought he resembled a hamster on an exercise wheel, constantly moving, but going nowhere.

The TV show didn't seem to be helping either. "No, of course he's not the boy's father." He suddenly shouted to the set. "Look, at the turn ups on his jeans."

"I knew it was a mistake." John commented with a grin.

"Hmm?" Sherlock inquired, still focusing intently on the screen.

"Getting you in crap telly."

"Hmm. Not a patch on Connie Prince." said Sherlock.

"Besides, it's better than him taking it out on the wall." said Brenna, jerking her head at the yellow smiley face on the wall behind her.

"True enough." said John, "That's going to be an awful thing to fix up."

"Leave it." Said Brenna, "Gives that side of the room some character."

"As if that's something this flat didn't have enough of." muttered John, "By the way, did you give Mycroft the memory stick?"

"Yep," said Sherlock, "He was over the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood, again."

Brenna raised her eyes briefly from her screen, staring at Sherlock for a few seconds, before shaking her head and returning to her work.

"You know, I'm still waiting." said John, who hadn't noticed Brenna's look, and neither did Sherlock for that matter.

"Hmm? Sherlock asked, though he perhaps already knew where the conversation was heading.

"For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."

"Didn't do _you_ any good, did it?" Sherlock pointed out.

"No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective."

"Thanks heavens for that." said Brenna, with a grin "I don't think that the world could handle any more than one."

John agreed to this with a laugh, and said, "I won't be in for tea. I'm going to Sarah's." He got to his feet and started to move towards the door. "There's some of that risotto left in the fridge. Milk, we need milk."

"I'll get some."said Sherlock, suddenly.

John turned around in surprise, staring at Sherlock. Sherlock never volunteered to get the shopping. "Really?"

Sherlock nodded, still watching the telly. "Really."

"And some beans, too?"

Sherlock nodded again, apparently had no qualms about agreeing to something as mundane as shopping for groceries. However, John didn't seem to take note of the almost insistent quality with which Sherlock acquiesced. It might have been that Sherlock was willing to say almost anything so that John would leave that much quicker.

However, Brenna noticed. Indeed, she had noticed quite a bit during the last five minutes. And when John left and they heard the door closing on the ground floor below them, she closed her laptop and turned to Sherlock. "So, are you going to tell John about your little plan?"

Very few things actually caught Sherlock by surprise. He was most often able to anticipate any sort of loophole. However, if there was anything that he had learned about Brenna which he always needed to remember, it was to expect the unexpected.

"Tell John about what plan?"

"Oh, I don't know, that you didn't actually give the memory stick back to Mycroft, and that you're planning on using it to lure whoever's been responsible for sending you on these chases, Moriarty, I assume."

Sherlock gaped at her, and for a moment, he looked utterly ridiculous. "Sherlock, you still have much to learn about being able to lie convincingly when I can hear you. I could believe that Mycroft would be thrilled to get the memory stick back, but offering you a knighthood is a bit excessive. And then there this little gem right here." She removed the memory stick from her pocket, and held it up between them. "You really need to be more aware of your personal belongings, Sherlock. I was able to lift this off of you far too easily."

Sherlock was rendered speechless for approximately seven seconds, which was quite a long time when it came to Sherlock. When he did speak again, all he was able to deliver were incoherent mumblings. Despite herself, Brenna burst out laughing. She got up from her chair, and moved to the one that John had been occupying. "Don't worry, Sherlock. You'll notice I didn't mention it to John."

"How did you guess?" Sherlock finally asked.

"I took a note from you and observed."

Sherlock groaned. "You're not going to start going on about my ears, are you?"

Brenna chuckled, and kissed one of Sherlock's ears, as she put her arms around his neck. "Why not, Sherlock? You're ears are one of your best features. The point is, you have something planned, something that you don't want to tell John about, because you know that he will follow you."

"And I suppose you'll insist on following me now that you know about it." Sherlock muttered, in obvious frustration. "I can't allow it. It's far dangerous."

"Sherlock, who was it that broke into any number of secure villas and broke the security of a dozen famous museums, risking detection and arrest every moment? I'm used to risk. I'm coming with you, so you'll just have to get used to the idea. The only thing that I want to know is why."

Sherlock was silent, before he finally answered in a quiet voice. "I have to know, Brenna. I have to know who is doing this. I've never encountered anyone like this before in all of my cases. Whoever is doing this, he's just like me, but also very different. I can't explain it, but it's just something I have to do."

Brenna nodded, understanding. "Which is exactly why I'm going with you. I'm not letting you go through this alone if I can possibly help it."

Sherlock turned to look at her. "I can't possibly argue with you, can I?"

"You could certainly try."

"But it would be a waste of time."

"Excellent deduction, Sherlock. And when I consider how much you hate to waste time, I simply suggest that you get on with it."

Sherlock did not respond to that. Instead, he took out his computer, and typed a message into his website blog. Other entries from the previous few days were still present, but this final one would be the most important by far. _**Found: Bruce-Pardington plans. Please collect. Pool. Midnight.**_

The last movement in the game had begun. The final gambit had been thrown. In a short time, two equally brilliant and dangerous opponents would meet face to face for the first time. How it would turn out was really anyone's guess. Only one thing was certain: there would be only one winner.


	12. The Great Game

The Great Game:

The pool was eerily quiet in the middle of the night. The water reflected in shady ripples across the ceiling and walls, and the smell of chlorine hung thick in the air. The stillness of the place was almost anticipatory, as if there was something of very great import about to come to a head. That assumption would actually be quite accurate.

When Sherlock and Brenna came into the room, they were met with silence. No movement stirred in the shadows that surrounded the pool, and it seemed as though there was no one else there. After a few moments of waiting for some sort of announcement or presence to make itself known, Sherlock looked over at Brenna and said, "Stay behind me, and don't try to make any sudden moves. I'm sure he'll just be interested in me, but I can't run the risk of putting you in any danger."

Brenna nodded, and Sherlock was grateful that she was listening to him. Subconsciously, he knew that it had been rather foolish to bring her along, but there was little point in worrying about such things. She was there, and he had to make sure that her safety was his first priority.

Sherlock looked around him. The room was still empty, with no sign of another living soul, save the two of them. Perhaps, an additional lure was needed in order to tease his opponent out. "Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present." said Sherlock, holding up a memory stick that contained the defense plans. "Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your puzzles, making me dance, all to distract me from this."

A door opened behind them, and when Sherlock turned around, and saw who was standing in front of him, he froze in complete shock. There was John, standing in front of them, wearing a heavy parka, his entire body rigid and tense. "Evening." He said, his voice staccato and rough. "This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?"

However, Sherlock was not able to pick up on the obvious signs of distress. For a split second, his powers of deduction failed him, and all he was able to see was that it was John who was standing in front of him. It was John who had been with him all this time, who had come to know all of Sherlock's methods. Could it be that John had been the one who had been behind everything? "John," He uttered in disbelief. "What the hell…"

"Bet you never saw this coming." said John.

For a brief, terrible, second, Sherlock's world cracked and came within mere fractions of shattering completely. Sherlock did not form attachments easily. He avoided them almost religiously, for the simple reason that such attachments carried with them the danger of clouding his judgment and making it impossible for him to think clearly. But, it's very difficult for anyone to go through life completely devoid of any attachments. In the case of Sherlock, those rare people that were able to get under his skin, he was incredibly protective of. People like Mrs. Hudson, Brenna and John, were those that he would go to extreme, almost obsessive lengths to protect. Sherlock did not allow himself feel much, but what he did, he felt intensely.

And because he was so protective, that meant if even one person turned against him, his entire foundation could very well be doomed. So, when he thought for one moment that John was the one responsible for threatening and killing so many people (John, who was supposed to be the moral one of the team), he felt alone and helpless.

But that only lasted for a moment. With an expression of pained helplessness, John slowly pulled aside the parka he was wearing, revealing the bomb that was strapped to his chest. As if that was not bad enough, from somewhere in the darkened upper gallery, the angry red dot of a sniper rifle suddenly appeared on his body. John's situation was now frighteningly clear: he had become a victim of the mysterious bomber. "What... would you like me... to make him say... next? Gottle of gear, gottle of-"

"Stop it!" Sherlock snarled, as he came forward a few more steps, his blue eyes searching all around the still seemingly abandoned building, desperately looking for any sign of whoever might have been holding the gun. Now that he knew that John was actually in danger, a protective instinct welled within him. He had to protect John, John could not die. He knew that the game had just become far more personal.

"Nice touch this" said John, repeating the words which were being spoken into his ear. "The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him." John winced slightly at the next words, but he pushed on. "I can stop John Watson, too. Stop his heart."

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded to the empty room. He had had enough of communicating through secondary voices. He wanted to know who this mastermind was. He wanted a face to go with the mind.

It seemed as though the shadowy intelligence agreed that it was finally time to show his face. A door opened on the other side of the pool. The low light of the pool made it difficult for any of them to see the person clearly. However, they all heard his voice: a soft, though still slightly high pitched voice, with a manic tone. Brenna was able to hear that the accent of the voice itself was Irish, which almost made the voice echo and ring more sharply around the pool.

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call."

The shadow moved into the light, and took on the body of a man, of medium height and build, with short, black hair and intense dark eyes. He was dressed in a very expensive suit. Not because he had to do so for his job or because he was concerned about appearance. He seemed to be wearing it simply to show that he could afford to do so. He was regarding them all with a rather ironic smile, as though a joke were being played on them, and they had long missed the punch line.

He approached the three of them, hands in his pockets, the very epitome of cool control. He didn't seem to be at all bothered y the thick tension in the air. "Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?" He asked Sherlock, as he approached them.

Sherlock had been watching the stranger approach with all the caution of a lion looking at a hyena. He saw the man as the dangerous opponent which he was, and one who was his equal. There was, however, something that was not the same, something that Sherlock did not think that he could yet understand. He had taken John's gun, because he hadn't known what he would be dealing with, but now he was quite glad that he had thought to take the precaution. "Both." He said, as he drew the gun and pointed it squarely at the man.

The man did not seem in the least troubled by this act of aggression. In fact, he seemed to think that it was incredibly amusing. "Jim Moriarty, hi."

It was only in that moment everything clicked together, for both Sherlock and Brenna. They had already encountered this person before. Sherlock, when he had brushed aside Molly's new boyfriend as being gay. And Brenna realized with a horrified start that she had actually seen him twice: once at the hospital when he had been so sweetly trying to get Molly's attention, and nearly two and a half years before, when she thought she had found a good Samaritan in her hour of need. She realized that she had been totally deceived. And so had Sherlock, a fact which Moriarty did not fail to point out.

"Jim? Jim from the hospital?" He asked, in mock surprise, "Oh, did I really make sure a fleeting impression? But than, I suppose that was rather the point."

A moment of tense silence followed. The final critical phase in this great game had reached its height, as two opponents, of equal brilliant and capacity, met face to face for the first time. They had been circling around each other, testing each others' strength, seeing just how far one could push the other. Sherlock had been right about their being a final test; however, it was John's life which was now hanging in the balance.

Moriarty, for his part, seemed to be enjoying this, almost too much. When Sherlock looked around the room, presumably looking for the sniper that was targeting John, he quipped, "Don't be silly, someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty. I've given you a glimpse Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse, of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, see, like you."

After all that Sherlock had witnessed of Moriarty's handiwork, from the serial killer cabby to the press-ganged suicide bombers, he knew exactly what he was referring to. "Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you help me disappear to South America?"

Sherlock was beginning to realize that Moriarty had been behind all of those crimes, and that the last few days had been an elaborate test. Nonetheless, Sherlock got the distinct feeling that Moriarty would have arranged them regardless. What was more, he seemed immeasurably proud of hearing the recital. He evidently enjoyed hearing himself praised, much like Sherlock. "Just so."

In just a moment, Sherlock could not hide his admiration and interest. Here, at last, was someone who was like him, someone who understood what it felt like to be so different from the other people in the world, someone who knew what it felt like to be bored. "Consulting criminal, brilliant."

Moriarty's smug, satisfied smirk only seemed to widen at Sherlock's words. "Isn't it? No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will."

Up until this point, he hadn't acknowledged Brenna's presence at all. However, when he said these words, he made no attempt to hide the look he cast in her direction, and his smirk seemed to melt into one of almost cruel satisfaction. Moriarty's mere presence had been enough to set her on edge from almost the first moment, though she wouldn't have been able to say why. Something about him just seemed very wrong. Having his attention on her like that though sent shivers of unspeakable dread down her spine.

Sherlock didn't like the look of Moriarty, either. It was only supposed to be the two of them right now. He didn't want Brenna in the line of fire. He deliberately stepped into Moriarty's line of sight, so that he couldn't stare at Brenna.

"I did." said Sherlock, rising to the challenge of the last statement, as he cocked the gun he was holding.

Moriarty didn't comment on Sherlock's protective stance, beyond a sold sneer. He would deal with Brenna in a moment. Right now, he had bigger things to deal with. "You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

"Thank you." said Sherlock, almost automatically.

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes, you did."

"Yeah, okay, I did." Moriarty admitted.

He came forward a few more steps, and his attitude abruptly changed, from amused and smug to eerily warning and angry. His voice rose in pitch, becoming sing-songy, which was all the more disturbing. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now."

Almost immediately, Moriarty's voice went back to his regular tone. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So, take this as a friendly warning, my dear: back off."

Despite the warning, and the deadly seriousness with which it was delivered, Moriarty wasn't quite willing to stop having his fun. He had clearly been waiting for encounter as much as Sherlock, and he wanted to enjoy every minute of it. "Although I have loved this," he said, with a thrilled smirk, "this little game of ours, playing Jim from IT, playing gay. Did you like the bit with the underwear? Your girlfriend really seemed to think that I would be a great match for little Molly. Only ups the fun I was having when she didn't even recognize me from the first time."

Despite himself, Sherlock stiffened at the mention of Brenna, his grip on the gun tightening. Moriarty looked at Brenna, addressing her directly for the first time in a mocking tone. "You really fell for my little act, didn't you? Both times. I knew that I was good, but if I can slip past your radar twice under completely different circumstances, I must be better than even I thought."

Brenna couldn't stop the shudder which skated down her spine when Moriarty turned the full force of his attention on her. "You were at my father's funeral."

"Yes, I was. Quite a joke, you not being able to get in because your family barred you, while I was able to stroll in without so much as a by your leave. It's even more hilarious when you consider that I was the one which they should have turned away. I could hardly keep from laughing through the service."

Brenna stiffened, unsure whether it was from anger and shock. The suspicion which Shane had first introduced, now began to take a on much more solid form. Yet, she still didn't know how to put it into words. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, shouldn't it be obvious?" said Moriarty, with fake surprise, "You can't even guess? Don't you know anything about what your father was doing before he died?"

"I've been starting to ask myself those questions."

"And yet you're still no closer to an answer? You honestly think that your Holmes pet here was the first to ever get close to me. Your dad found out to much. So, I'm afraid that he had to go."

Actually hearing him say it, especially with the disturbing joy of a mad psychopath, almost shattered her. She felt like she had been stabbed in the stomach, the sheer horror and shock of the confession left her numb. "You…you killed my father?"

"Yes, I did. In the end, it was really rather simple. Rig his car with some explosives; time it just right to look like accident. No body, no evidence, nothing that could lead back to me. Considering how very determined your father was to find me, the end of our fight was almost disappointing."

Brenna could not move or speak. That was probably of the best, as any enraged reaction might have spelled her death.

Evidently satisfied in the fact that he had just traumatized Brenna, Moriarty turned back to Sherlock. "Consider that a little warning, Sherlock, about what happens to the people who cross me. Brenna, here, has been a player in this little game long before she even got involved with you. I could have taken her out at any time, but there was no need to with her dad out of the way. But, than she has to go and fall in love with you, of all people, and so she becomes a possible pawn once more."

Sherlock had to suppress every protective instinct which welled up within him when he heard the implicit threat in Moriarty's words. "People have died." said Sherlock, quietly.

"That's what people _DO_!" Moriarty screamed, his voice sharp, stabbing and harsh. Brenna closed her eyes and tensed up, almost wanting to make herself smaller, just so she could get away from Moriarty's voice.

However, when he heard those word, Sherlock finally understood. For just a moment, Sherlock saw what he might have been. And he did not like the image. He had always known that he was different from other people, in his thinking, his behavior, his very morals. But Sherlock did have morals, and he never broke them. He was now looking at someone who had no sense of what limits were. Some part of Sherlock might still have admired Moriarty for the complexity of his crimes, but, at the same time, he was also repulsed by them.

"I will stop you." Sherlock said, and he had to confess himself surprised by the determination that he heard in his own voice.

But Moriarty's confidence was just as strong as Sherlock's. "No, you won't."

Sherlock's mind may have been focusing on Moriarty, but a greater part of his emotional side was more worried for John. As there was clearly no more profit to be had from talking to Moriarty any further, Sherlock now turned his attention to John. "You all right?"

Before John could respond, Moriarty beat him to it. "You can talk, Johnny Boy." He said, with gleeful mockery.

John didn't like being so close to Moriarty while a sniper was aiming directly at the Semtex strapped around his chest. He seemed to have shut down all parts of his mind, except that of the soldier which he was. He didn't want to give Moriarty the satisfaction of seeing him frightened. Wordlessly, he nodded.

Sherlock had seen and heard enough. Suddenly, all he wanted to do was to get Brenna and John away from Moriarty. It was time to end this game. Sherlock held out the memory stick to Moriarty. "Take it."

Moriarty's eyes went to the memory stick, and he took it from Sherlock's hand with a great deal of interest. "Oh, the Bruce-Pardington plans." However, that interest only seemed to last for a brief second before he flung the memory stick into the pool with a decisive, "Boring, I could have got them anywhere."

Moriarty had had to venture past John in order to grab the memory stick from Sherlock, and he seemed to have completely disregarded the army doctor as a threat, but that was a mistake which he might have paid dearly for. John had merely been waiting for the right moment to strike. As soon as Moriarty's back was to him, he lunged at him, grabbing him the shoulders and pinning Moriarty's arms to his side. "Brenna, Sherlock, run!"

The bright red dot which had been flickering so ominously over John's chest was now threatening both him and the criminal mastermind. Of course, it was perhaps no surprise that Moriarty was not in the least concerned by this. In fact, he was supremely entertained, and he even burst out laughing. "Oh, good!"

"Your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, we both go up." snarled John, in Moriarty's ear.

Despite John's screaming at them to run, both Brenna and Sherlock were frozen. Brenna did not want John to die for her. He was something akin to an army tank and one of the toughest men she knew, but that only meant that she was always counting on him to be the one to survive.

Sherlock was feeling something much different. John was willing, with no hesitation whatever, to die for his own safety. He had never had anyone be willing to do that for him before. And in a strange way, John's sacrifice made neither of them want to even consider running.

The only one who seemed to be completely unaffected was Moriarty, who seemed to consider the entire situation as being very funny. "Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal. But, oops!"

Sherlock inwardly cursed himself as he saw an angry red dot suddenly appear on Brenna's forehead. And he didn't need to see her horrified look or that of John's to know that an identical one was now being aimed at him, putting both of them in the line of fire. He should have known that Moriarty would have more than one assassin on hand. If Moriarty was like him, he should have known that he had a plan for every contingency.

"You've shown your hand there, Dr. Watson. Gotcha."

John instantly let go of Moriarty, holding up his hands in surrender. Moriarty brushed off his suit, which had been imperceptibly disturbed by John's efforts at heroism. "Westwood." He chided, sarcastically.

The last five minutes had been a critical game changer for Sherlock. Moriarty was not playing this game for any end goal or material gain. He was playing for the sport, to see how much of a match Sherlock could be for him. And as his former actions had proved, he was more than willing to use others and kill them to advance his plans. This was a game which could have only one winner in Moriarty's mind. And no matter how worthy an opponent he deemed Sherlock, the consulting criminal had already determined that it would be him.

"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?"

"Oh, let me guess." said Sherlock, in a rather bored tone, "I get killed."

Moriarty made an expression of distaste at Sherlock's predictable and unimaginative response. "Kill you? No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyway, one day. I'm saving it up for something special; I don't want to spoil it. No, no, no, if you don't stop prying, I will burn you."

His face once more seemed to melt into that disturbingly insane expression. Even Sherlock, for all his resolve, felt himself slightly on edge, a feeling that he was not at all used to. Moriarty's tone became an echo of that voice, vicious and cruel. "I will burn the heart out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." said Sherlock, hiding any uneasiness he might have felt admirably.

"But we both know that's not entirely true." said Moriarty, knowingly, before he cast a significant glance in Brenna's direction. For just a split second, ice shot through Sherlock's veins. He hated the thought of losing John, but the very idea of not having Brenna in his life almost made him want to stop breathing. He had grown to depend upon them both too much; he couldn't imagine what might happen if he lost them.

Whether or not Moriarty saw this moment of seeming weakness really didn't matter at this point. He already knew enough. He had abruptly changed mood and expression once more, once more calm and collected once more. "Well, I'd better be off. Well, so nice to have had a proper chat."

Sherlock's hold on his pistol tightened, he aimed it a little closer at Moriarty's head. "What if I was to shoot you now, right now?"

Jim clearly didn't take the threat seriously. He held all of the cards, and both he and Sherlock knew. "Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." His smirk grew wider, as did his eyes, in a mocking echo of surprise. "'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would." The smirk faded, phasing into an expression of contempt. "And just a teensy bit... disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long."

Brenna could hardly believe what she had been hearing in Moriarty's words. He was just going to let them go? Than what had this whole thing been for?

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." said Moriarty.

Moriarty moved to exit by the side door which he had first entered from. Sherlock kept him in his sights all the time, never lowering his guard until Moriarty was out of sight. "Catch... you... later."

Moriarty's voice echoed one more through the pool, sing-songy and insane. "No, you won't."

Moriarty was gone, and Brenna couldn't help but feel an immense wave of relief wash over her. Sherlock also felt immensely relieved, only it was displayed in a much more overt way. No sooner was his enemy out of sight than he dropped the gun, got on his knees in front of John, and began tearing the bomb vest off of his best friend. "All right? Are you all right?" He demanded, his voice frantic.

John, for his own part, tried to assure Sherlock that he was fine, only rather badly shaken. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine."

Even trying to get this idea across was difficult when Sherlock was forcefully stripping the vest off of him. Nor was it enough to just have if off John, Sherlock had to throw it across to the side of the pool, just to get the thing as far away from his friend as he could possibly manage.

Then, and only then, did Sherlock return to the business of trying to track down Moriarty. Grabbing the gun from the floor, he hurried off in the direction Moriarty had taken. John was hyperventilating, as the shock from the last few minutes finally slammed into him. His legs buckled underneath, and he leaned against the door frame, taking deep breaths to try and calm himself.

Brenna was immediately there beside him. "You all right?"

"Yeah, Brenna. I will be."

"I hope you're right, because you look awful." John managed a pained laugh. Brenna found herself joining him, before she asked, "How did you find yourself in this mess?"

John shook his head, finally managing to gain some control over his breathing. "I don't know. I was just walking down the street trying to catch a cab, when I felt someone grab me from behind. They were able to knock me out somehow. Next thing I know, I'm awake, with what feels like a ten pound weight on my chest, and that man, standing over me. He told me to go out there and say all those things to Sherlock. Everything else is a blur."

"And yet you were in your right mind enough to throw yourself at that psycho to save Sherlock and I. for that, I guess I owe you some thanks."

At this point, Sherlock breezed back into the room. Evidently, he had found no trace of Moriarty, but that did not make him any more relaxed. He was pacing back and forth, clearly agitated and overwhelmed by the emotions of relief, worry, and adrenaline.

"You all right?" John asked.

"Me, yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Fine." said Sherlock, clearly lacking his usual eloquence. "That, er... Thing that you, er, that you did… that, um, you offered to do... that was, um, good." That came nowhere close to what Sherlock was feeling, but truth be told, it was the best he could come up with.

"That's Sherlock's way of saying thank you, I believe, John." said Brenna, with a smile. And for once, Sherlock didn't bother to correct her.

"I'm glad no one saw that, though." said John.

"Hmm?" said Sherlock questioningly.

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk."

"People do little else." Sherlock quipped, and then, he smiled as John, a true, genuine smile, that he only reserved for Brenna or Mrs. Hudson, the people who he really cared for. He now knew without a doubt that John was included in that number. Friendship was not something he could logically quantify, that was why he tried to avoid it. Except in very rare circumstances where it didn't really matter anymore, only the person did.

It was enough for even John to see that in just a look. And he returned it with a smile of his own.

However warm the moment might have been for Sherlock and John, Brenna herself was not in the mood to linger. "Sherlock, John, I'm really glad that you had this opportunity to bond, but I would really like to get out of here."

Neither of them were exactly ready to offer an argument. However, no sooner had John gotten to his feet to join them in moving to the exit, a swarm of angry red dots appeared to hover over all three of them. John groaned and Brenna muttered, "Not again."

A door at the far end of the pool opened and Moriarty stepped out. "Sorry, boys, I'm so changeable!"

Sherlock felt his heart sink as he cast an anxious glance at the upper level of the pool, which was still shrouded in darkness. There must have been multiple assassins, all aiming from different directions. There was no way he would be able o get even one shot off before they took down Brenna and John first.

They were in a difficult place ad Moriarty knew it. He opened his arms wide, as if making a grand proclamation to the entire world. "It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." He lowered his arms, his stance becoming more casual and conversational. "You can't be allowed to continue, you just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."

Sherlock was still, watching the dots hovering over the bodies of his partner and best friend like deadly wasps. His mind was moving quickly, and he had already arrived at the most logical conclusion for this scenario. If _they_ couldn't continue, neither could Moriarty. He glanced over at John and Brenna, knowing that if he did what he knew he had to do, he would be putting them both in terrible danger. However, without any hesitation, they nodded their assent. If they needed to be sacrificed in order to get rid of Moriarty, that was a sacrifice they would gladly make.

Knowing their thoughts, Sherlock was resolved. He turned around and said, "And I believe that my answer has crossed yours." He aimed the gun at Moriarty, but than dropped his aim to the bomb vest at Moriarty's feet.

Tension hung thick in the air. Time seemed to freeze. Brenna and John waited breathlessly to see who would be the ultimate winner in this game, or if this would be the last play of all.


	13. The Draw

The Draw:

The only ones who did not seem to be feeling the tension of being a mere bullet away from death, were Sherlock and Moriarty. They continued to face each other coolly, neither backing down or advancing, merely staring at each other, waiting to see who would make the next and possibly final move.

And then a sound sliced through the tension, bringing the drama to a rather abrupt halt. There really isn't a lot of drama that can be milked out of the disco classic _Stayin' Alive_. The three of them had no idea where the song was coming from, looking at each other in evident confusion. However, Moriarty's expression showed that he knew where it was coming from. It only took a few seconds for them to realize that the song was coming from Moriarty himself. Brenna had to confess herself less than impressed. Moriarty really couldn't have made a better choice for his ring tone?

"Do you mind if I get that?" asked Moriarty, after a moment. He seemed rather perturbed that someone was calling at such an inopportune moment.

"Oh no, please." said Sherlock, as though this were a completely ordinary conversation, completely ignoring the snipers, the bomb vest or the fact that one or all of them could be killed in a second. "You've got the rest of your life."

Moriarty answered his phone. "Hello? ...Yes, of course, it is, what do you want?" He looked over at Sherlock, and mouthed, "Sorry."

"Oh, it's fine." Sherlock mouthed back.

With ill conceived impatience, Moriarty turned around, listening intently to the phone on the other hand. A few seconds of tense silence followed as they all waited for what would happen next. They had no idea what was going on, but they all knew that their lives could very well hinge upon Moriarty next actions.

Even so, Moriarty's next words caused them all to jump slightly. He whirled around and screamed with animalistic fury. "Say that again!" His voice dropped abruptly, to a snarl of pure insanity. "Say that again, and know that if you are lying to me, I will find you and I will ssskin you." It was no idle boast. Brenna had a troubling impression that he could indeed skin a person if he had the means.

Moriarty continued to listen intently to what the person was saying, and then he said, "Wait." He lowered the phone, and appeared thoughtful, as though considering his next move. He walked forward, stopping a mere few feet from the bomb vest. Sherlock tensed, his hold on the gun tightening, prepared to fire if Moriarty made a wrong move. At last, Moriarty decided. "Sorry, wrong day to die."

"Oh, did you get a better offer?" Sherlock asked, only half sarcastic.

Moriarty looked down at his phone, and then aimed a half smirk at Sherlock. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock." He turned away from the threesome, and headed back to the door which he had originally entered from, speaking as he went. He was continuing the conversation on the phone. "So, if you have what you say you have, I'll make you rich. If you don't, I'll turn you into shoes."

At the last second, before he exited the room, and without even turning around, Moriarty sharply snapped his fingers. Instantly, the red sniper targets vanished from the foreheads of Sherlock, John, and Brenna. The pool became as still as when the whole thing had started. They were alone. It was over. The round had ended, improbably, in a draw.

They exchanged glances that were by turns immeasurably relieved and incredibly confused. "What was that?" John finally inquired.

"Something changed his mind." said Sherlock, "The only question is, who?"

"If we're meant to find out, we will." said Brenna, "Right now I don't really know if I care. Let's get out of here. I don't know about you two, but I could do with a stiff drink."

Little could any of them have suspected the identity of their unintentional rescuer. Nor could they have known that The Woman who had placed the call to Moriarty would be having a very big impact on their lives in the near future.

* * *

When Brenna came into the work the next day, she was greeted by Trevor and Patrick. They both looked up from their desks, ready to give her their usual morning greeting, but paused when they got a good look at her face. "Whoa, Brenna," said Patrick, "No offense, but you look really awful this morning."

"Now awful, really." said Trevor, as though trying to salvage Patrick's bluntness. "Just like you didn't get that much sleep. Are you all right?"

"I really didn't get that much sleep." said Brenna, "I had kind of a rough night."

"Oh, sorry to hear that." said Patrick, "Try getting some more coffee in you. The Iron Lady is out in force today. Looked almost as on edge as you."

"Yeah, she really wanted to see you when she came in. said that we should tell you." said Trevor.

"Lovely, just what I needed to start off this morning." said Brenna, as she set her things down at her desk, and headed for Alice's office.

Alice was already sitting there, going over some case files. Brenna knocked on the already open door. "Morning, the boys said you wanted to see me."

Alice looked up, and gestured for her to come in. "Yes, I did want to see you. Shut the door, Brenna. I would prefer that this wouldn't get out just yet."

"I'm intrigued already." She shut the door, and sat down opposite Alice. "What's this about?"

"Would you mind telling me why you happened to be at the same pool where Carl Powers died last night?" asked Alice, without any sort of preamble.

Brenna looked at her. "Well, I can't say I'm entirely surprised you asked me that. I suppose that when you looked up my tracking data this morning, you must have noticed a variance." She frowned, thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, I was well outside my radius. There should have been at least an irritated phone call from you, not mentioning the possibility of a whole squad of police cars outside the entrance."

"I might very well have done that, only I didn't know about it until this morning when I checked your readings, and saw a rather suspicions gap from late last night. For about twenty-two minutes last night, your anklet stopped transmitting altogether."

Brenna was surprised by this. "What? You mean, someone was able to remotely hack my anklet and turn it off without someone knowing it? I thought that was supposed to be impossible?"

"It's supposed to be, that's what had me worried. The only reason I knew where you were was the security footage at the pool itself. I saw you and Sherlock enter the pool, and then you, he and John both left fairly quickly afterward. The cameras inside the pool itself were covered. I can't help but think, given the events of the last few days, that the timing is just a little convenient to be a coincidence."

Brenna contemplated for just a moment not telling Alice all of what had happened. However, there was a good chance that Alice would probably find it out sooner or later. Besides, she had a feeling that Moriarty might have deliberately revealed himself so that they could spread the word about him. Much like Sherlock, Moriarty seemed to be the type of man of who loved hearing himself talked about.

"Well, honestly there isn't much to say about it. Sherlock and I met the person who was behind all the bombings, the Vermeer incident included."

Alice raised her eyebrows. "I see, and you didn't think that Lestrade and I would have wanted to know about that immediately? Dare I ask who that person was?"

"He called himself Jim Moriarty."

She knew that Alice had heard the name before, from Ramona's confession. However, then she had shown no signs of recognizing the name. However, hearing it from Brenna's herself elicited an extremely different reaction. She leaned back in her chair almost as if she had been punched hard in the stomach. Her eyes were wide, and it was clear that she had suddenly been struck by fear and worry to deep to fully comprehend.

"Jim Moriarty? Brenna, are you sure?"

"I don't think that's something I would forget. He almost killed John and Sherlock, along with myself after only a few minutes. Do you know him?"

Alice seemed to take a moment to answer, and when she did, she chose her words carefully. "I know _of_ him. There have been rumors flying thick and fast about him for years now. Some reports say that he has extensive connections with every known active terrorist organization in the world, providing them with weapons and funding, even occasionally ideas for their attacks. However, there are others who say that one man couldn't possibly have his hands in so many pies all at once, especially one that has never been seen or heard. Those reports say he's not real, but a front for a great many people, all of them connected by a vast organization."

"Trust me; I know he's a real person. But you heard Wenceslas say her name just yesterday and you didn't so much as flinch. Why do you look so sick when I say that I actually met this person?"

"Honestly, because I wasn't expecting it from you. From a rather corrupt museum director who was looking to make a quick pound or two by passing off a well-done forgery as the real thing, that seems to be just the sort of plan which Moriarty would be into. But you, you never really struck me as the type to become embroiled in something like that."

"No, I don't think so. I've always been to honest for my own good, even when I was breaking the law." She was trying to be ironic, but even she could hear the slight strain in her voice. It had been a very stressful few days, and the revelation that she had received from Moriarty wasn't helping her mood, either. "And for those people who say that Moriarty isn't real, I definitely know that he's real, flesh and blood. Believe me, I won't ever be able to forget it."

Alice stared at her for several seconds, and finally asked, "Brenna, what did he say to you?"

Brenna was unsure how to answer. Should she reveal to Alice the suspicions which Shane had planted in her mind regarding the death of her father? Or that she had overheard Alice's conversation with Mycroft Holmes? She knew now that they could only have been talking about Moriarty, and that somehow there was a connection between the consulting criminal and her father's death. But if she were to state it in those terms, how much information would she get? Alive was clearly trying to keep something secret from her, something important. If she wanted any definite answers, she was going to have to ask her questions carefully.

So, she decided to just stick strictly with what Moriarty had told her, and pretend that it was a complete surprise that she had heard it. "He told me that he killed my father, to keep him quiet."

Silence greeted this statement; Brenna stared hard at Alice, trying to see what she could pick up from her face. She saw nothing beyond shock. "You mean that Moriarty was responsible for the car accident that killed your father?"

"Yes, and I know that he wasn't lying. He was practically bragging about it. I also remember that he was actually at my father's funeral. He even spoke to me, though I really had no idea who he was at the time."

"I see." said Alice, "Brenna, I don't know what to say. If I had had any idea…" She trailed off and shook her head. "I can't imagine how you must be feeling right now."

"I'm not entirely sure I know what I'm feeling either. Part of me is still in shock. I honestly can't wrap my mind around the fact that someone actually murdered my father. I don't know. I expect I'll be angry eventually. Right now, I just feel helpless."

"And you don't like feeling helpless." said Alice.

"I also feel almost let down. I just thought, that is there was the slightest suspicion that my father was murdered, someone would have asked at least some questions. He was so dedicated to his work. But I wonder, in light of this, if anyone even respected him."

No sooner had the words left her mouth then she saw Alice's face flash for just a moment with a deep, almost incriminating guilt. It was gone in a moment, replaced with genuine sympathy and concern. But it was all the confirmation that Brenna needed. She knew that very often the deepest secrets could reveal themselves in the most subtle of ways. And now, even though Alice wasn't even aware of it, she was revealing the secrets which Brenna wanted to know. Alice knew something about her father's murder, and she wasn't telling. That meant that Brenna was on her own.

"I wish there was something I could do to help, Brenna. Really I do."

"Well, what can you do?" said Brenna, "Moriarty doesn't really seem like the type to leave any sort of evidence that could be traced back to him. He might have said it to me, but I doubt there will be any sort of evidence which we could find."

"Are you sure that you're all right? Are you sure that you don't want to take a few days off?"

"No, you know me. In times like this, I need to be doing something. Otherwise, I'll just sit and brood. That won't lead to anything good."

"If you're sure, then. I might need to get a statement from you later. Lestrade will also want to know about this."

"John and Sherlock are already telling him."

"You might want to get down there, then."

"I was going to. I just needed to tell you everything first." And she had gotten more than enough. The seed of mistrust that had first been sown a few days ago now started to grow. Alice had always been the one person that she could trust. Now, she was beginning to wonder if that trust was more filled with shadows than she had ever wanted to believe.

She got up to leave, but she was stopped by Alice. "Brenna, I promise you, however long it takes, we'll get justice for your father. I'm behind you in this, every step of the way." Alice's face was set with determination, and Brenna knew that she meant it. But it still didn't help matters. She simply nodded and tried to give her a smile, before walking out the door.

Once she had left, Alice took out her cell phone and entered the number that was becoming all too familiar to her. "Yes, it's me. We have to talk... Look, I don't care if you're in a meeting with the Russian Ambassador this afternoon. Make time. Brenna suspects something."


	14. A Deal

A Deal:

 _Two and a half years previously…_

Alice sometimes found herself questioning her sanity. That was probably a necessary part of being a police officer. What entirely sane person would choose a profession where they had the potential to get shot at for a living? But she had never questioned her sanity more than now, when she walked into the prison where Brenna Ryan was being held to serve out her five year sentence for bond forgery. This could very well be a dead end. If Brenna didn't agree to this deal, the whole situation could potentially get worse.

Alice knew that she had her work cut out for her. She had had a hard enough time convincing her superiors to accept that this would be beneficial to the department. She could only hope that that Brenna would see it the same way.

However, she also had to admit that there was something about Brenna Ryan. She had chased the former thief for nearly three years. Though they hadn't met face to face until the say she had arrested her in the cemetery, Alice felt that she knew Brenna better than most people. Brenna was persistent, smart and charismatic. There had been something about her which had spoken to Inspector to in a deeper way than any other criminal she had ever tracked down. She did not deny that Brenna had to pay the consequences of her crimes, but there was nothing saying that she had to do so.

So, for better or for worse, she found herself waiting for Brenna in the prison's receiving room little less than a month after she had been the one to put her there. When she came in, Alice couldn't help but see the significant difference which had been wrought in her after only a very short time. Brenna seemed listless, as though she were operating on autopilot. The spark had left her eyes and they were red and raw, mourning for her father. She didn't seem to have lost any weight, but her body really didn't seem to agree with the enforced sedentary lifestyle of prison. In short, she was a mere shadow of the the woman she had arrested. For some reason, it really bothered more than it probably should have.

Alice thought it was better not to bring this up, however. It probably wouldn't be a good opening to their conversation. Instead, when Brenna sat down, and she dismissed the guard, she said, "Brenna, orange really isn't your color."

Brenna managed half a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I tried requesting something more to my taste, but for some reason they wouldn't listen to me." She looked at Alice, as though just realizing for the first time that having Alice visiting her in prison was odd in the best sense of the word. "It's not that I'm not pleased to see you, Inspector. It's actually nice to see a familiar face who isn't a guard. But, I was convicted. Your work when it comes to me is over. Why are you here?"

"I need your help."

I beg your pardon?"

Alice took out two pieces of paper and slid them across the table to her. "I want you to take a look at these bonds, which have been popping up across London for the last few days. My department has been tracking them, but we're having difficulty determining just how they're being forged. I don't suppose you could lend us your expert eye?"

She regarded Brenna closely. She saw how her eyes became suddenly brighter. Life seemed to come back into her face as she leaned forward over the bonds, studying them intently. This was clearly what she lived for. This was her art and passion.

Her answer was delivered without hesitation. "I have to admit, the coloring along the edges is almost perfect, not to mention the lettering within the actual bond itself. However, it's the quality of the paper which should be a dead give away. Most bonds like this are made on paper that's smooth, that always has a distinctive look and smell to it. These bonds are made on rougher paper. It's a common trick for foragers. They hope that by getting one or two aspect flawless, no one will look too closely at anything else."

She suddenly seemed to realize what she was saying. She stopped and stared at Alice in confusion. "Why are you asking me this? You obviously would have had people at your station who could have told you this."

"Yes, perhaps, but not nearly so quickly." said Alice. She leaned forward, staring earnestly at Brenna. "Don't you think that you're meant for someting more than this, Brenna?"

Brenna clearly hadn't been expecting this question. "What?"

"You aren't meant to be behind bars, Brenna." said Alice, "You're supposed to be out there, in the world, doing something. That's why I'm really here. I would like to propose a deal."

"A deal? What kind of deal?"

"I can get you out of here, on a work release. You would be working with me, in London, as an adviser on White Collar crime."

Brenna looked at her with raised eyebrows. "You want me to help you track down people for the crimes that I used to commit? What sense does that make?"

"Not a lot, I grant you. But then again, you know that not all the people in your line of work follow your code of conduct, Brenna."

"I should know that better than anyone." said Brenna, quietly. "You haven't said what the conditions are?"

Alice braced herself. Here it was; the issue that would make or break the deal. "You wouldn't be completely free to do what you want, Brenna. The terms of the deal require that you wear a tracking anklet, and when you're not with me or at the Yard, you'll be confined to a radius of two miles. That's so you won't have the chance to run again."

Brenna was silent. She was obviously considering the deal, but Alice was having a difficult time reading her expression. That impairment on her freedom would be the main difficulty that Alice knew she would have to overcome. If there was one thing that she knew about Brenna, it was that she didn't like having to answer to anyone.

When Brenna still didn't answer, Alice was certain that she was not going to get through to her. Strangely, she felt almost disappointed. "Well, take sometime to think about it. Let me know." She got up and went towards the door.

However, she got only two steps before Brenna said, "Okay, I'll take it."

Alice stopped and turned around. "What?"

"I'll take the deal." Brenna managed a smile. "You think that I want to be stuck behind bars for the next five years when I could be doing what I'm actually good at?"

"Well, in that case," said Alice, smiling with no small amount of relief. "Let me be the first to welcome you to the Force."

 _Present Day…_

Alice had been thinking a lot lately about that first deal she had made with Brenna. She sometimes felt guilty that she had never told Brenna the entire truth. She had been sincere in the fact that she had wanted to give Brenna a second chance to prove herself. But there had been another reason, one that she hadn't dared tell her. So far, the whole scheme that had been concocted to ensure Brenna's safety had gone smoothly. Now, that was thrown into chaos, thanks to Moriarty's machinations.

That was why she had been forced to meet with Mycroft in person. She had to admit that she had never really been all that fond of the elder Holmes. He had an arrogance about him that made her skin crawl. She never felt entirely in control when she met with him. However, she had little choice at the moment. She needed information that Mycroft alone had access to.

Another thing that annoyed her about Mycroft was his flair from the dramatic when it came to arranging secret meetings. A discrete, covert meeting in a café seemed far less suspicious in Alice's mind than Mycroft's methods, which included taking people hostage in mysterious, unmarked cars and whisking them off to out of the way locations for an intimidating interview. In this case, he had insisted on meeting with her at the London Eye, in a car which he had taken over so that they would be able to talk in peace. Alice had had to avoid rolling her eyes when he had told about it.

When she arrived at the London Eye, she found that the arrangements had already been made, and she didn't have any trouble finding where she supposed to go. There was Mycroft Holmes, sitting in one of the seats, with his usual impeccable suit and ever present umbrella. "I do hope that this is worth the thirty minutes I'm taking out of my schedule to be here." He said in greeting, as the car began moving.

Alice crossed her arms and looked at him levelly. "You do. Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

Mycroft smiled that coldly polite smile of his that Alice had seen so many times before. "True enough, I suppose. But, if you're going to tell me of what transpired last night, I am already aware of the fact that Moriarty confronted Sherlock. I also know that Brenna and Dr. Watson were present."

Alice had long since given up even wondering how Mycroft had access to information that was less than twenty-four hours old. "I see. Did your sources also happen to mention to Moriarty told Brenna that he was the one who killed her father?"

Mycroft's eyes grew wide, and it was clear that Alice had actually delivered something that was a surprise to him. On that, at least, she took a small amount of satisfaction.

"Really? So, she knows the truth?" said Mycroft, at last.

"One part of it, at least. She told me what happened this morning."

"I see, and did you tell her the rest of the story?"

"Mycroft, do you really think I'm that much of an idiot? If I'd told her what I had known from the start, what I still know now, everything that she and I have built up over the last few years will be lost. She won't trust me again, and everything which I've done to try and keep her safe will be for nothing."

"How do you know that she won't try and go off to hunt Moriarty on her own?"

"She's not stupid, Mycroft. Once the shock wears off and she really starts to think about it, I've no doubt that she will be angry. But she's never taken a job that she knew she could never complete, and she knows that Moriarty is a man that she can't take down alone."

"But what if she finds out the rest?"

"And what would happen if she did? I know that you created the official story of the accident in order to protect her, but don't you think at some point, she and her family deserve to know the truth?"

"And just how much of the truth should Brenna know? I grant that she may not go after Moriarty, but she will start to dig, and as persistent as we both know she is, there is a fair chance that she will find out everything. Do you really think she would just sit still and quiet here in London if she were to find out that her father was alive?"

Alice couldn't answer that. Mycroft wasn't expecting her to. They both knew what Brenna would do. She had loved her father too much to just sit idly by if she believed him to be in danger. And Oliver Ryan had been in danger for a long time, by his own choice. He had been the one who had first started to seriously investigate Moriarty as a real threat and the first to put a name to the face of a real person. He had also been willing to make the ultimate sacrifice in order to keep on investigating that secret. That sacrifice had been to fake his own death so that his family would be kept safe.

"Such a course of action would defeat the entire purpose of what all this has been for." said Mycroft, after a few minutes. "I made a deal with Oliver. I would keep his family safe as long as he continued to try and find out what he could about Moriarty."

"And that included me getting Brenna out of prison," finished Alice, "because he didn't trust prison security."

Mycroft nodded, his face growing grim. "Brenna cannot find out. If she does, Moriarty's mocks at a pool might become a genuine threat to her very safety."

Alice nodded, agreeing however reluctantly with what Mycroft was saying. "She has started to ask questions, Mycroft, more than she has before. And it didn't just start with Moriarty. She asked for some of her father's old case files a few days ago, and I get the feeling that won't be the end of it."

"What are you going to do? I don't think that she would have been satisfied if you had turned her away, though that would have been for her own good."

"No, she wouldn't have. I'm going to see if I can get her the official files for what he was working on. It will only show that he was investigating gang activity, nothing that would tip her off to what he was really doing. That might buy us some time."

"Let us just hope that it is enough. It's part of the reason why I agreed to meet with you. Oliver got in contact with me a few days ago. He said that he was afraid that his cover had been exposed. He wasn't sure how or why, but he couldn't run the risk that the information might somehow find it's way back to Moriarty. If his cover is exposed now, than everything which we have worked for could be nothing."

Alice let out a heavy sigh and rubbed her forehead in frustration. "So, where does that leave us?"

"I'm afraid that you already know the answer to that. We can't change the fact that Brenna knows something, but we can control how much else she finds out. It's for her own safety and that of Olivier."

Alice knew that Mycroft was right. She hated the idea of having to continue the lie, but she knew that it was necessary. "She will keep searching, Mycroft. That is something which we cannot prevent."

"Than we shall simply have to try and point her snooping into the right direction. Her perseverance might prove to be an advantage if the cards are played right."

"I don't know if Olivier would appreciate the idea of his daughter becoming involved in this."

"Now that Brenna knows about Moriarty's connection with her family, she has already become involved. Indeed, if the events of last night are any indication, she has been involved ever since she began her romantic liaison with my brother. As there is very little chance of the two of them becoming unattached, I think that we will both have to accept that Brenna is now playing the game as much as Sherlock. That being the case, we should make use of it."

"You have to be careful how you think to use Brenna, Mycroft. I chased her for three years, and have worked with her for over two. She is the smartest, most determined woman I know, and very much able to bend the rules if she sees fit. She just might be resourceful enough to outwit Scotland Yard and the entire British government combined."

"As much as I don't want to contemplate that, it's very true." said Mycroft. "Brenna's talent for making mischief is almost unmatched. Only my brother could be said to be her equal. No wonder they are so good together."

"If I wasn't hearing you better, I'd say that you were actually paying both of them a compliment."

"Maybe I was, but you did not hear it from me." The car in which they were riding was approaching the end of it's circuit around The Eye. It also signaled the end of their meeting.

"So, we simply wait and see what happens, then?" said Alice, as Mycroft got to his feet and headed for the door of the car.

"For now, I believe that is all we can do. Both Moriarty and Sherlock have reached a draw. We'll need to wait to see who makes the next move. In the meantime, allow her to search, but be aware of what she is searching for."

"I'll do my best."

"Good. I hope you know that I think this meeting was not a total waste of time. However, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to attend with the Bulgarian Ambassadors. I am the only thing that could be standing between that country and the possibility of civil war."

"Of course you are. Do give them my best."

As Mycroft disappeared into his black car, Alice began to make her back to Yard. She did not feel at all comforted by her conversation with Mycroft. She knew that Brenna couldn't be controlled. She somehow had a feeling that the spirit of their former days was over. She also felt that, for a time, she and Brenna could very well be working on opposite sides, to protect the same secret.


	15. Epilogue

Epilogue:

It had taken her nearly three years for another member of her family to even consider talking to her through letter, let alone face to face. Brenna was more than just happy that Martha was speaking to her, overjoyed would have been far more accurate. However, that relationship was still very fragile. There were things which she couldn't confide to Martha; but there was one sister who had never lost faith in Brenna, even when she had had every reason to turn her away completely.

Elizabeth was two years older than Brenna. The two had been nearly inseparable growing up, and even after she had vanished without a trace or even a word to her family, Elizabeth had always believed that she would come home. When her hopes had proven to be true, Elizabeth had forgiven Brenna, totally and completely. Ever since then, the two had kept in regular contact, Elizabeth providing her sister with a desperately needed link to her family and past, as well as a sounding board through the crazy journey which was Brenna's life.

It was always easy. Elizabeth seemed to be constantly in some distant part of the world, her job as a computer technician in the Royal Navy keeping her away from home a great deal of the time. It could sometimes be weeks or months in-between Skype calls, but somehow, the amount and distance never seemed to matter to the two sisters. They always somehow found the ability to reconnect, no matter how long their last conversation had been or how little time they had to talk.

Brenna especially needed some girl time, as the intersecting case of the foraged Vermeer and the revelation of Sherlock's nemesis, Moriarty had left her feeling more than a little drained. "And then, he just left." She said, finishing the story of their last confrontation with Moriarty at the pool. "Quite honestly, I have no idea why he didn't just blow us up."

"You must have been terrified." said Elizabeth, her brow furrowing deeply in concern.

"Oh, you know me, Lizzie. Of course, I was." She shook her head. "It seems so surreal to be looking back on it now. This sort of thing isn't supposed to happen in real life."

"Yeah, well there also aren't supposed to be Consulting Detectives or reformed thieves working together either, but look at you and Sherlock?" said Elizabeth, with a hint of a smile. "Somehow, I get the feeling this is pretty normal for you. Do you think he'll be coming back?"

Brenna sighed and shook her head. "I really wish that I could say no. but, I get the feeling that whoever this Moriarty is, he's not the type to just leave his greatest opponents walking around, alive and well. No, we'll see him again. It's just a matter of when and where; until then, there's really nothing we can really do, except wait."

"Be careful, then, all right, Ren? I'm not about to lose you to a stalking, serial killer who blows up people on a whim."

"Lizzie, don't worry about me. I can take care of myself, and I do have Sherlock to look after me."

"You can't ask me to _not_ worry about you, Brenna. I'm an older sister, that's what we're supposed to do. Besides, I haven't even met this Sherlock character, so I still don't even know if I can give him my approval for your protection until you actually introduce me."

Brenna smiled. "You should really come over and meet him. It's not my fault we got together while you were on the other side of the world."

Elizabeth laughed, the mood lightening. "All right, fair point. I might be able to get some leave in the next few months, sis. I'll be sure to pay you a visit if I can."

"That would be a huge help for me, Lizzie. I could use a bit of normalcy."

"Not to much though, if I know you." said Elizabeth, giving her a smile. "If I know you, being normal is something you wouldn't be able to stand for very long." She looked off to the side of the computer, presumably looking at some clock off-screen. "Look, Ren, I need to get off. I'm on duty here in a few minutes."

"All right, Elizabeth. We'll talk later. Love you."

"Love you, too, Brenna. Be safe."

Brenna switched off her computer, and hugged Lily close. Lily wagged her tail and nuzzled up into Brenna's face happily. Brenna couldn't help but laugh. "Lily, life is so simple for you." She looked over at the table, which was scattered with the reports of her father's recent cases. After her conversations with Alice over the last few days, her suspicions couldn't be ignored any longer. She hadn't found anything conclusively so far, but there were small hints throughout the reports which made her uncertain. "I wish it could be so simple for me."

Brenna sighed and picked up another report, preparing herself for another numbing evening of trying to piece together the mystery of her father's death. However, she didn't get through the first paragraph before she heard her doorbell ring.

She glanced over at Lily. "You weren't expecting anyone, were you?" Lily didn't answer, of course. But she almost wasn't sure who she would want to see at this hour.

Brenna went to the door and opened it. There stood Sherlock Holmes on the other side of the door. "Sherlock, I wasn't expecting you this evening."

"I know." said Sherlock, "I would have texted you, but... I wasn't even sure that I was coming myself."

Brenna knew Sherlock much better than most people did. At a cursory glance, one might have concluded from Sherlock's seemingly nonchalant manner and still confidant speaking, that the stresses of the last few days hadn't effect him in the slightest. However, Brenna saw differently. There were dark circles under his eyes, and that straight, confidant posture might have been just slightly stooped. His expression was much more open than it usually was, and it showed that the worry and fear which he had been pushing to the back of his mind over the last few days was finally starting to catch up with him.

Sherlock would probably never have admitted it out loud, but he didn't want to be alone that night. Part of why he was here was because he needed her. She couldn't fault him for that. In all honesty, she needed him just as much after all that had happened.

"Well, I'm glad that you're here. I think it's been a pretty rough couple of days, for both of us."

"Yes, that might be partly why I'm here. And, I also remembered that I owe you a date."

"A date? What-?" Brenna suddenly remembered that barely a week before, she and Sherlock had gotten into a big fight over the fact that Sherlock had completely forgotten about taking her out to dinner. That event seemed so far and distant, it might as well have been last year. She couldn't help but laugh at the irony. "Oh, you're right, I completely forgot. It hardly seems important now, what with everything's that's happened."

"Inconsequential, really. But, I still promised you, so I thought you might like to join me for dinner. I don't think I can take you to the place I was originally planning on, but Angelo's should still be open, and you always said that you liked their food better anyway, so..."

Brenna put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and he stopped his rambling. She couldn't help but smile at him. After everything, Sherlock was still so concerned about doing everything right in their relationship. He was so far from perfect, but he was still so perfect for her.

"Sherlock, it sounds lovely. Honestly, I think that we could both use a bit of relaxation after the days we've had."

Sherlock actually smiled a little, looking strangely relieved that he didn't have to keep up the mask with her. "In that case, shall we?"

FINIS


End file.
